#organs and had one of my kidneys all backed up with piss. and even getting emergency treatment for it everyone was like. how did you like it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

nyehilismwriting · 3 years

Text

keep the wolf from the door

2.8k words; related (loosely) to a side project I’m working on. content warnings: animal death, gore, violence, descriptions of animal butchery. (apologies for my problems disorder)

the deer falls, blood and sweat dripping down her side in rivulets of pink foam. you watch as she tumbles, legs flailing, from the rocks she had fled to for safety, the jagged shadow of the steep cliffs offering false protection from the hunter.

quite the shot.

the arrow shaft snaps as she drops, leaves the head wedged under her shoulder, protruding bloody from her ribs. you stoop to taste her blood from the rocks, granite and pine and copper and salt, pure and heady. she's a young doe, plump from the summer grazing, separated from her herd by last night's storm. a lucky catch, one that will feed a family well.

you take the arrow shaft from where it lies, chew on the feathers - owl-soft and silent, with the bitter sharpness of ash wood. the splintered edge is sharp enough to draw blood, scraps of wiry hair clinging to the wood. you taste those too, the fear and hurt, adrenaline - and beneath, the taste of the wild.

the hunter is here, now, scrambling down the slippery rocks with their bow over one shoulder. they move like a mountain goat, clinging to the damp stone with long, thin fingers, bruised knuckles and bloody fingertips. they're thin - too thin, mongrel-thin, with matted hair and hunted-wide eyes. a starving cub, chewing on roots to survive.

as they crouch to work the arrowhead free of the deer carcass, you lean in close behind them. drag your tongue up the back of their neck (and they shiver as you do so, hypervigilance driven by isolation giving them a unique paranoia) and taste their sweat, the salt and musk of their oily skin. chew on the ends of their hair, tasting the bitterness of their youth, the citrus-sharp edge of desperation. lay your hands over theirs as they skin the doe, feel the tendons flexing beneath their thin skin, the heat of their blood pulsing thickly in their arteries. feel the fine tremor as they wield their knife, hunger and exhaustion gripping their muscles tight.

when they slip, when the paring knife bites into the meat of their thumb, you lunge, lap at the fresh blood before they press their hand into their armpit, letting out a weak sob. you swallow that, too, chew on the frustration and fear and hurt.

there's something beguiling about it, the way they press down on the bleeding split on their thumb until the oozing stops, before getting stubbornly back to work. they're even shakier now, slower than ever. despite their care, the deer hide peels off the carcass uneven, streaked with gore and pitted with holes.

the hunter drops it aside with barely a blink, too worn down to care. you settle down on the discarded hide, chew on one ragged edge as they adjust their grip on their little knife and dig it into the deer's muscle. one smooth slice and the guts spill out, slippery-slick and pungent, glistening purple and convulsing in the hunter's hands. they unspool like so much reeking, rotting rope, and the hunter shoves them aside to slice through the meat of the belly. the scents of blood and feces fills the air, making your mouth water, teeth chattering together with the clatter of wings, of rocks tumbling down the hillside. once again, the hunter shivers, and you do it again, relishing in the way their head snaps up.

there's a flash of disappointment as their wide, dark eyes pass over you without a blink, scanning the trees around them. when they turn their eyes back to the half-butchered carcass, you do the same, licking your chops as the hunter plunges their hand into the stomach cavity to slice free the kidney. it comes out slippery and steaming, reeking of salt and urine and leaking blood over the glistening fingers that grasp it. they eye it for a moment, thumb pressing an indent into the rubbery organ: then, hunger surging, head light, they open their mouth and swallow it whole. close their eyes tight against the taste, the texture, and shudder as it goes down. you can't help yourself: you lean in, lick the smeared blood from their lips and chin as they fight not to retch, all but purring at the heady taste. the hunter makes a noise, the broken whimper of a sick animal, and you snap that up too, roll it over in your mouth and swallow it down still wriggling.

when they have their stomach back under control, the hunter resumes their gruesome work, slicing through tendons and membranes with exhausted determination. you stay where you are, cuddled up to them with your head on their shoulder, occasionally chewing the ends of their hair, lapping at the tears that spill from their watering eyes.

they taste good. salty, earthy. savoury - and savour them you do, enjoying every minute as they force themselves through the process, fingers growing numb with cold as the night sets in. you haven't had a meal this good in a long time (the terror of the chase, the horror of wolf jaws on bone, the primitive dread as winter sets in and the nights grow long - all are enough to keep you alive, but easy to come by and less satisfying than you'd like), and it leaves you feeling sated, satisfied, a snake basking on a rock with its prey still bulging in its stomach. the hunter, too, is enjoying what you suspect is the best meal they've had in a long time; they've made a small fire, pitiful, really, but hot enough to charr chunks of venison, fat sizzling on the rocks. they shovel the meat down straight from the fire, mouth steaming, smeared with grease and ash that you lick delicately from their skin, their lips, their burned and blistering fingertips.

they stop eating surprisingly fast - don't gorge themselves the way you'd been expecting, and you wonder if this is the first time they've been starving. when they unpack their bedroll, halfway under the shadow of the cliff and curl into a tiny ball, you give in to the temptation (for the second time - does this little hunter truly taste so good?) and slide in with them, wrap yourself in their bitter exhaustion. they dream, that night, of running hunted through the woods, blood from deep cuts flowing ribbon-like behind them.

when they wake, stomach cramping with hunger and nausea, dehydrated and shaking, you lap at the tears that leak from their eyes. cling to them as they pack up camp, like a tick on a deer’s flank, sucking greedily at their discomfort. they pack up the meat they butchered, roll up the damp, gory mess of the hide and strap it to their pack, and all the while you can’t keep to yourself, chewing on their fingertips, snapping at their hair, lapping at their skin like a starving dog. when you lean in close, breathe across their face and lick the moisture from their eyes, they freeze. so do you. they blink, slowly, the strange intimacy of their eyelashes brushing over you as they frown into the distance - then, hoarse, voice disused and creaking:

“Hello?”

that’s new. you pull back, watching them curiously as they squint through you. there’s a long, heavy moment where neither of you move, you watching them as they watch the trees. they can feel it, you know - the metallic taste of primitive dread, the horror of the hunted, coppery in the back of their mouth, oozing out through their skin. still, though you coil yourself around them, purr in their ear, drag your claws down their back, they don’t move.

it seems they can’t sense you that acutely. it’s enough to pique your curiosity nonetheless, having been a while since you met (‘met’) someone so sensitive; perhaps that’s why, when they stand, sated, and pack up their little camp, shoulder their bow, you follow them into the woods.

it's a mistake, probably, that you follow them, lodged in their shadow like a splinter, for nearly a year after that. they're alone, and hurt, and a talented hunter, and these things are aphrodisia to you. so you cling to them, spend their nights chasing them in their dreams until cold sweat and heart-pounding fear is as much a part of their daily routine as sleeping and pissing. you can’t help but wonder what their last breath will taste like, when their luck and their talent finally fail them: will it be starvation, you wonder, or a bear? a wolf, as skinny and desperate and starving as they are, dripping jaws on their throat? you speculate, as you slink in their shadow, if their corpse will taste of rot, if they’ll be as sweet in death as they are in the throes of their nightmares, thrashing and sobbing. whether it’s the last breath, tender and resigned, or the penultimate, still fighting, that will taste best. the thought consumes you as you consume them, until one day they wake up vomiting from fear, and with the acid-bile on your tongue, you swear it to yourself: you will find out.

though you try, experimenting with them the way a wolf cub chews its parent's tail (though you know the strength of your jaws and it is far greater than any cub’s), you can't get them to see you. you leer at them as they walk, crouch unseen and grotesque on the rocky shore as they bathe; you hiss and snarl and snap at the crows that draw too close to the camp, startling them and sending them clattering to the sky. your little hunter flinches each time, jerks to their feet, but their eyes are always fixed on the trees, never looking close enough, to where you coil and shiver and purr against their chest, their shoulders, their shadow.

then, one day, of course there come others. you're both squatting in the underbrush, you watching as they dig roots from the loose sandy earth with their bare, bruised hands. much to your shame, they hear it first: your little hunter goes still, wide-eyed, head cocked. they're both hunter and prey, frozen like a rabbit, eyes falcon-sharp as they watch the trees.

then you hear it, the rhythmic clank of metal, the meat-stink of well-fed men traipsing through your woods. your hunter flattens themself to the ground, bony fingers spread wide in the dirt; their stringy muscles are tense, coiled tight to fight or flee.

you scent the air, curious. the interlopers are loud, cheerful, brushing aside the woods with brutal carelessness.

you like that. ego like that is always delicious, especially broken open like eggs fallen from nests, rich salty yolk and slimy, savoury whites. you're starting to salivate, shaking like a starving mongrel (though you haven't been starving for a long time, you or your little hunter) with lips peeled back from broken teeth. your hunter is moving too, knife in their trembling hand, eyes fixed on the source of the sound.

the men are drawing closer, closer, branches snapping like bones beneath their boots. three of them, well-fed, strong, sleek muscle under quality clothes. slinking around them (keeping your little hunter in view, of course), you draw close enough to taste them, lap at their sweat and drag your fingers through their hair while they march on, oblivious. your hunter is almost flat to the earth, now, their dark hair and filthy clothes blending into the undergrowth, though the whites of their eyes are still visible, wild and panicked.

they’re almost past, voices echoing caustic from the trees, when your hunter’s nerve breaks. they twitch backwards; a twig snaps. the guillotine falls, the noose draws tight. the men turn. for a long, delicious moment, all four humans stare at one another, wide-eyed, the air crackling desert-dry.

then your little hunter turns and flees. predictable as a pack of starving dogs, the newcomers give chase, and so do you.

your hunter is faster, fleet on their feet and familiar with the woods: they hurl themselves over a fallen tree, leave skin and a smear of blood behind, and one of the men crashes hard against it, the air leaving his lungs with a whoosh.

your hunter is fast, but their pursuers are fit, well-fed, and smarter than you’d thought. you lope beside them, tongue hanging out to taste the adrenaline of the hunt, as they begin to close on your companion. the two newcomers still hot on their heels are breathing hard but steady, where your hunter is starting to hyperventilate, breath river-rock sharp in their lungs. you can taste inevitability like fresh blood in your mouth, and when your hunter stumbles-

-bone-cracking-

-leg-snapping-

-skin-tearing-sharp into the earth, tumbles head over heels down the rocks and lies motionless-

-it feels like vindication.

you shiver with anticipation as they roll onto their back, dragging their useless leg. their pain is almost overpowering, tempered only by stubborn determination as they claw their way into the underbrush, a futile attempt to hide. the pack crests the hill, faces split wide into gruesome grins as they survey their victory.

they slow, amble lazily down the hillside as your hunter spits and snarls, face twisted in pain and rage. spreading out behind the leader, a pack of wolves ready to feast; and you, too, are feasting, all but delirious in the fog of agony, bloodlust, sweat and adrenaline and bloody violence permeating in the air.

like any good pack leader, he takes his time, savors his victory; a tall man, three times as broad as your little hunter, he grins down at them with too many teeth, a knife between his meaty hands. stoops, presses a hand to the oozing wound on their leg where you can see red bone protruding; your hunter screams as he leans hard on it, grits their teeth against the grinding grating agony. you watch, curious, as the blood drains from their face, eyelids fluttering as their body fights to pass out, to die to avoid further ruin. they don’t, though, keep their wide dark eyes fixed on their tormentor’s face even as something new snap-shatters in their leg.

the man leans in, unsatisfied with the response. removes his hand, now stained red and glistening, from the wound, and reaches instead for their face.

your hunter moves. there’s a wet squelch, a gurgling. blood splatters their face, sprayed from the man’s throat. soaks their hand, still shaking on the handle of the knife the hunters had forgotten to check for. you start to laugh, the sound as harsh as grating bone, cawing crows, as the man slumps to the floor, the stink of urine filling the air. your little hunter turns their eyes on his companions as the body tumbles twitching into the dirt, and you can’t mistake the challenge there. it's futile; you all know it, and it makes you laugh harder, a wretched rasping that none of them hear, your hunter showing their bones to the sky, their back to the earth.

despite your laughter, as the two remaining start to move in on your wounded hunter, expressions dark with fury, discomfort prickles at you. they’ve been a good meal, a constant source of fear and fury over the past months; and more than that, entertainment, someone to watch, to toy with. are you willing to give that up, yet?

your answer comes blinding like lightning, shattering you down the centre like a struck tree. you look down at your hunter-

-your feast of the past months-

-dying in the dirt-

-and they look back at you.

see you.

and you have been feeding from them so long now it doesn't take contact to feel their desperation, their hand twitching as they reach for you, begging, pleading-

-offering.

the interlopers are closing in, and your little hunter sees you, doe eyes desperate as their killers draw close.

so when they lunge, you do too. when their hands close, so do yours - and when they scream, teeth in their spine and claws in their chests, you howl with a voice not your own, drinking down blood and salt and terror, bone fragments lodged between your teeth and their hearts convulsing in your hands. thin hands, shaking with exhaustion, a scar on the pad of one thumb. the pain in your leg is dulled by your presence, easy to ignore as you bite deeper, tendons snapping and sinew stretching as blood splashes up your chest.

the world looks very different through these eyes. your vision is blurred, wet, colours smudged across the landscape, a gore-streaked deer hide poorly removed. your hands are shaking, your leg (and pain is a new thing to feel for yourself, as used as you are to tasting it on the skin of others) a throbbing beacon of agony. your tongue sits heavy and leaden in your mouth, your chest tight - and it’s then that you realise you’re breathing, panting, saliva wet in your mouth and in your throat.

your hunter’s voice echoes inside their head as they speak, the first words you’ve heard them say out loud since that day in the clearing.

“I knew you were there-”

and their satisfaction glows briefly, sweet as glacier water, as autumn apples. then the world goes dark.

#always feel...sneaky posting non sentinel writing on here #but it's my blog and i can do what i want #stomps my feet #anyway yes here.....is a Thing #writing #not sentinel #fucked with some formatting again so hopefully it doesn't look like garbage on mobile #pls check the cws!!

112 notes · View notes

hoe-imaginess · 4 years

Note

I will sell my left kidney for some yandere content of Shisui Uchiha, he is my ultimate crush and I love him. BTW I LOVE YOUR NEW BLOG THEME, IT IS SO ORGANIZED AND NICE TO NAVIGATE

!!! thank yOU!!! I’m bad with yandere bc I have this pet peeve about how it... makes some characters horribly ooc... hence why this probably isn't as intense as some people like. yandere is interesting so I’d like try my hand at it a bit more but in a more realistic way so... anyways....

warning for emotional manipulation

Shisui Uchiha

He’s resentful for some reason. He’s upset with you. He’s been wronged. Things are not going right for him right now. And on top of that, he’s having these thoughts about you that he’s never had for anyone else before

He likes you. You’re kind. But you’ve got a bit of spunk too. You’re just right. Just right for him, honestly, the more he thinks about it

He’s had his eye on you for a while. It was innocent at first. He just admired you. He liked to let his eyes linger when you were near

Hey, maybe you even became friends. Maybe this lasted a while. He was happy with it: having you as just a friend

Until he wasn’t

He found himself wanting more. Thoughts of you cloud his head when he’s on missions and it frustrates him because dammnit he is a shinobi and he shouldn’t be so distracted like this. But he is.

He’s memorized every facet of your features with his sharginan and on lonesome nights while he’s out on his missions, he activates it so he can see your face in full

And when he’s had a particularly frenzied day, when his body is alight with adrenaline and he needs some release... when he slips his hand into his pants to stroke himself to completion, the sight of you is flashing behind his eyelids and making him climax that much harder

Then he starts rationalizing it. Of course he’s starting to really like you. You’re amazing. You’re fun to be around. You’re good looking. People are just drawn to you, aren’t they?

People are drawn to you

He starts noticing that the friendship he has with you isn’t unique. You have other friends. Other people you talk to. That’s nice, he thinks at first. It’s nice that you can find ways to be happy with the people around you

He just wishes you could be happy like that with him, and only him; that he could be enough for you, hard as he knows it might be since he’s such a busy shinobi

So he starts realizing that... maybe he needs to make you realize just how important his friendship is

It starts pretty simple: Shisui butters you up to earn your trust. He turns up the charm, goes out of his way to make shit chat and give you his soft, rare smiles. He’s a renowned shinobi, so lavishing you with attention obviously reels you in hard and fast

He knows it too. He knows that giving you attention will make you feel important, make you feel special. He wants you to get that giddy feeling in your chest every time you see him, every time you hear his name (the same thing that happens to him)

That’s when he knows he’s really caught you: when he sees the way your eyes light up when he approaches you

And the way they go blank with disappointment when he passes right by you, when he ignores you, acts like you don’t even exist

It’s manipulative as hell but that’s what he does

It’s his punishment: you’ve pissed him off somehow. You’ve been spending too much time with that one guy, you’ve been too busy with your job, you’re not giving him all the attention he thinks he deserves so now he’s not giving you the attention you’ve come to crave

It’s a rollercoaster. Up and down. Give you attention. Then ignore you. Attention. Ignore. Up and down until you’re nauseous and careening and begging for some grounding

Every time he looks at you, smiles at you, gives you even a word or two of recognition, it completely floors you. And all those late-night, despairing convictions you’ve made to Just let him go. Just forget about him. Just move on, are as good as dirt because now he’s reeled you in again

Once he knows he’s really trained you to crave him, once he’s convinced that he has your attention, then he gets a bit more personal

When you two are hanging out and you say you have to leave to go do this, to go meet that person, to go do something... He gets this little frown on his face. Disappointed. Upset. Annoyed.

You ask him what’s wrong and he won’t answer. If he does, it’s a flippant, “Nothing. Go do whatever.” Before he gets up and stalks off

This routine starts to make you feel guilty. You’re not spending enough time with him, you realize. He’s always going on about how busy he is, and here you are, not making the time you two do get to spend together worth it. He deserves every second of your attention

You start to focus on him, and your other friendships, your other responsibilities, they grow to background noise

Even if you’re a strong shinobi he feels it’s his job to protect you. On his late night patrols he’ll linger a bit around your house, watch you sleep through the window, make sure you’re alright before he carries on

If he sees one of your other friends out in the village, he gives them the cold shoulder; sneers at them if they try to speak a word to him. He wants nothing to do with them. You shouldn’t want anything to do with them, either

Probably has an article of your clothing or some sort of little keepsake he’s filched off of you (Actually, you dropped it one time, and he meant to give it back to you, but... he’ll hold onto it a little longer. Just a little longer.)

His feelings start tumbling out of control again

He has a duty to the village, to the Uchiha. You’re complicating that. At some point he voices these concerns to you, goes on about how much he likes you, how great you are, how amazing—

This really builds you up. Makes your heart flutter and a blush warm your cheeks

Then it’s all taken away when he starts voicing his doubts. He’s a busy man. He’s a shinobi. He doesn’t have time for this. You’re a distraction. He wishes there was a way to balance it. He does. But it’s not easy

Then he’s staring at you with that knitted, distressed expression. He asks you what you think, “How am I supposed to make this work?”

Maybe if he puts the pressure onto you, you’ll come up with something better. He wants to hear reassurance from you, wants you to fight for him, for a relationship. Wants to know you want him as badly as he wants you. Because if you don’t then fuck... he doesn’t know what he’s going to do

#shisui #naruto imagines #shisui uchiha #yandere

321 notes · View notes

coastaldragon · 3 years

Text

Dragon Diary 1/7/21

So...this is my resolution for the year.

I wanted to start a kin-related diary. I found myself missing how often I used to muse about myself and my experiences here, and have long since felt...detached from myself. Stuck in the loop of going through the motions of “human.”

A week late on my first entry, but so it goes.

These entries will just be flow-of-consciousness blabbles for the most part. I’ll talk about any kin-related thoughts I’ve had that day, how I’ve been feeling, how my otherkinity has affected my day, etc.

I have a lot of catching-up to do with you all, so the first few entries may seem disjointed and a little long. Lets get started. This is long. And a bit negative. But hopefully they won’t all be.

cw for death and drug mention and health talk like needles and stuff

I don’t quite remember why I dropped Tumblr like I did. I think I was getting annoyed at all the UI changes, and just overall very busy with “real life.” These things happen. I slowly drift away from a platform. Sometimes for weeks, months, or years in this case. Then I’ll drift back. Kind of like a scrap of wood on the waves.

In the time I’ve been gone life has been...interesting. The source of the stress that caused me to awaken in the first place is gone. He OD’d in...2014? 2015? Some time around there. My grasp of time is worse than ever.

We hadn’t even known he’d be using anything. Turned out he was stealing my late father’s remaining fentanyl supply. One of those guys who preys on widows like my mother. He lied about everything. His entire past as we knew it was a lie. And he was just leeching off of us.

It was...hard. I was the one who found his body upon getting home from work. My mother is still traumatized, even now. Even after all he did. She did love him.

I think all that hardened me quite a bit. And I’m sad for it. I’m still trying to soften myself again, but my trust has never been shattered like that before or since.

My now health is...poor. I had a great job working at an independent pack-and-mail sort of place for a few years. Very laid back, when the customers were nice. Helped me build a lot of strength and muscle. Quite enjoyed showing off by hefting 50lb boxes onto my shoulders. Helped me feel less weak in this squishy human body of mine.

But about...2 or 3 years ago [again, time is a myth to my brain] I woke up and my shoulders were just.

Locked.

It felt like someone had stuck paint spanners under my shoulder blades or something. Not only that, but I was weak. I barely had the strength in my arms to lift a half gallon of milk in the morning.

We thought I’d just hurt myself showing off, somehow. So we gave it some time. Took ibuprofen, used pain creams. Took a few days off work.

But it didn’t get better. It got painful. And the moreso. And moreso. And then my back began to have trouble as well. It was spreading. I felt...ill.

So. Doctors. Tests. More bloodwork than I’ve ever had in my entire life. [10 vials at once for one appt!]

My primary, who is a garbage person I never wish to see again, insisted it was just a sprain. Or something. Whatever. But I knew it wasn’t. My mother knew it wasn’t. Everyone I knew knew it wasn’t.

Specialist time! At the behest of my cousin, who has a litany of autoimmune disorders, we hooked up with a rheumatologist. Who I will call Dr.M.

Dr.M is an angel on Earth. I am convinced of it. A full year he spent with me, ordering tests, trying treatments, working with me to figure out what the hell was going on. And we did. And what a mouthful it is.

Ankylosing spondylitis. No, it’s not a dinosaur. [Though I do think I’m ‘hearted for ankylosaurines...I don’t think it’s related lol!]

You can look it up if you like. But basically: My immune system is fucking crazy and attacks all the things. Most places describe it as being a lower spine disorder, and while that is certainly where its centralized in most folks, that’s not all it is.

For example mine is, obviously, centralized in my shoulders and upper back. But it does aaaaaaaaaaall sorts of crazy shit. Every day is different. Joint pain, exhaustion, GI trouble, stomach upset, lack of appetite, murderous migraines. The usual for an autoimmune illness. But also wacky shit like costochondritis [painful inflammation of the cartilage of the ribs], random organ inflammation like in my kidneys [not fun], lungs [I had a 3-month stint of chronic bronchitis last winter], and even my heart [very not fun.] Sometimes it likes to attack my “integumentary system” aka shit like my skin and hair meaning I’ll have weeks where my hair just. Sheds. Like a damn cat. It gets everywhere and w/ my long-ass quarantine hair it’s so annoying.

This attack dog immune system does mean it’s unlikely for me to catch little bugs like your common colds and stuff, which is appreciated. But it also likes to maul anything else it deems foreign. Like medication! I took Humira shots for a few months and had a “paradoxical reaction” aka it did the literal opposite of what it was meant to, because the injections pissed off my immune system so much it went scorched-earth on whatever it could. Mostly my thighs, since that’s where the injections were. I still get stabbing pain in them and it’s been over a year. [No, I don’t think I can sue Humira over this. Though I have discussed it w/ my Dr.]

This also means that if I do get sick, it’s bad news. Something strong and unique like COVID? Death. Deaaaaaaaaath. Would likely trigger something called a “cytokine storm” aka my immune system nukes everything and my organs die and so do I.

So guess whoooooooo’s been locked up at home for almost a full year now? :’)

I luckily am able to work from home, though it barely pays the bills, and my health has suffered from a lack of being able to Do Stuff I normally would.

As a result I decided to get back in touch with myself.

It started with Second Life, because of course it did. A new dragon avatar came out. Shiny and mesh and easy [by SL standards] to modify. So me and a few friends [some kin, some not] made a group for sharing stuff for the av and just hanging out. It’s fallen by the wayside unfortunately but those nights spent chilling in SL with a bunch of other dragons roaring and goofing off felt really really good.

And then I made a kin Twitter. [And found some exceptionally cool kinfolk in the process.]

Then came Othercon the virtual otherkin convention and OtherConnect, the Discord spawned from the community that rapidly formed within the con. Othercon felt incredible. Panels and lectures about the history of otherkinity and alterhumanity and how we are today and rep in the media and just so! Much! Cool! Stuff! And tons of great kinfolk too!

To not only be within a community but seeing others like me and speaking with them, not just typing back at words on a screen. It was...so very, very reaffirming. It felt like a second awakening almost. I wanted to cry for finally, truly not feeling alone.

And now I’m here. Because I need to be. Because something, deep down, is telling me I’m going to be needing myself sometime soon. So I’d better get started.

I hope I don’t drift away on the tide again. I’ve missed this site, worse for wear as it is.

But I’m a bit tired today. A nasty headache lingering from yesterday’s nastier flare up. Accursed cold fronts. I used to enjoy them but not so much these days. Ah well.

I know there wasn’t much kin talk in this first entry, but as I said, we had a lot of catching-up to do!

#Diary 2021 #dragonkin #otherkin #I'll tag these for now but if folks would rather I didn't I'll keep them to myself. :>

6 notes · View notes

lastcrystalwitch · 3 years

Text

Competing with Drugs

It really sucks when you have friends who use drugs. Eventually, when they get addicted, they will make the choice to choose the drugs, over you. Or they will overdose and end up in the hospital, or in a casket. That is the truth of it. Many people don't want to hear it, but there it is. The cold hard truth.

Making friends isn't easy for me. I'm such a trusting person. I get hurt easily, but out of everything that has ever happened between two people, drug and alcohol abuse takes the cake. The metaphorical cake that is all the happiness and trust in a relationship. With drugs and alcohol that cake turns to rotten mess of maggots.

Truth is, there's never a good enough reason to take drugs. After seeing the danger that is a mean machine, drug abuse is something that is serious. Deadly serious. I've talked to many people who are between 25-30. They said that their high school friend group, best friends and buddies from school. They always used to hang out together. Most of them are dead now. There are only a handful of survivors from my friends friend group. 4 left out of 11. That's a lot of deaths. That's a lot of grief, waking up in the morning and getting a phone call, or finding out on social media that your best friend is dead.

Its crushing. Overdose is just another form of suicide. And after one suicide happens, many people think to themselves that it was their fault. That is an irrational thought. The dead person who overdosed knew that it could kill them, and either intentionally or accidentally took too much, and died. Now their friends and family are left with a heart wrenching grief that will take years to come to terms with and accept.

After my brother in law hung himself in my living room, right after my cousin by marriage shot himself in the head, I was thinking about suicide. The two happened only 48 hours apart. Less than that actually, I think. And many of the family were talking about suicide, making death pacts. It was overall an extremely unhealthy way of thinking. And the problem with it is, you can't ever tell that person that your mad at them.

A lot of thoughts stir around in your head when something like this happens.

And they're heavy thoughts. Deep. They get their claws into your soul and holds on.

I spent my high school and college years away from drug usage. I didn't want to do anything with anyone if I knew that they were doing drugs. I knew that I didn't want to get wrapped up in that. I didn't want to watch my friends die. I had a goal to get a Bachelors Degree, so I could make a lot of money doing art. Unfortunately a Bachelors of Art in Game Art & Design, might just be the most useless degree out there. It doesn't translate over to any other field really. One mistake that cost me 120,000.

With that price, I should be telling kids to get off my lawn. Get it? 120,000 and I could have had my own quaint little house.

I would still encourage my kids to go to college. Actually, If they were good with their hands, I would have sent them to a trade school. Trades are in a lack of people right now, and if you don't mind making bucko-bucks, going inside and outside, trade schools might be for you.

But right now, I'm dealing with family and friends abusing drugs. Some say that doing drugs helps them feel closer to the people who overdosed and died. That's like hurting yourself because your copying someone else hurting themselves. It Does Not Make Sense. Its what psychologists call irrational thoughts. Thoughts that do not make sense, that people can tell themselves to believe no matter what.

And by the Gods, this is a difficult subject.

But if you do try drugs, you're going to get addicted. You're going to be addicted, and never have any money. You will be in poverty. If you get addicted, say goodbye to being happy because as long as you are addicted you are injuring your body. I've seen what meth can do to kidneys. It makes them start shutting down.

Drugs make you lie. I work for the courts, and drug test people. I have had people lie right to my face about what drugs they take, when I am the second one ever to see their lab results come back when they test positive for drugs. I know what they took.

I have seen people lose their family. Women have picked drugs over their kids. They couldn't stop for whatever reason and lost their homes, their cars, their husbands, their kids. I have seen alcoholics be court ordered to take their car into a mechanic, and get a machine installed, that forces them to do an alcohol test to make sure they aren't driving drunk, because they can't stop trying to put other peoples lives at risk because they can't stop drinking. They are selfish and don't think about how they could be driving and kill someone in a car crash because of their own bad decisions. All these people have are excuses. Bullshit excuses and irrational thoughts. They smile and tell you their tale. And all while they lie.

I paint drug abusers and users in the same category. Bad.

Because it is. I've seen first hand how your heart gets torn out when everyone around you is grieving and falling to pieces over a loved ones suicide, that was linked to drug and alcohol abuse, emotional abuse, and unchecked and unbounded mental health problems. You can lie to yourself, and listen to your friends as they tell you its not all that bad. It makes them feel pretty good actually.

Sure, in the moment, drugs can make you feel pretty good. Alcohol goes for the same way. It can make you feel pretty damn good.

But not only are you poisoning your body with alcohol, damaging your kidneys and making your organs work double time, but you're going to become irresponsible. I see it more times than not with teens that survive into adult hood. They want to feel really good so they hide their problems and run away from them by turning to drugs and alcohol. They get drunk, have a good time, have a hang over that lasts for a day, and usually call into work, wasting their bosses time and making the employees and coworkers suffer by having to pick up the slack.

And your own happiness comes first absolutely. But at the expense of other people's happiness? That's pretty fricking selfish. And I have been the one who called out of work because I had a hang over. And I regret calling out. But even more so, I regret drinking when I had to knowingly work the next day. That was just stupid. I knew what would happen, and somehow made it feel like I was the one people should be feeling sorry for. Feel bad for me, give me easy things to do, I have a hangover. People like that don't deserve special treatment. People like that deserve to get punished for their actions. If you put your hand on the hot grill, you know its going to be hot. Why act surprised when you get burnt? Why be surprised when you have everyone pissed at you at work the next day because your dragging ass, because of something you did intentionally without being responsible. Its just irresponsible.

Doing that is like knowing its bad, and doing it anyway. Be a woman about it though. Take responsibilities for your own actions. You want to drink the day before? Go for it. You'll only make others around you pissed that you're not feeling well enough to work if you decide to power through the hang over, and you will absolutely hate yourself. The migraine and vomiting that promises to follow will ensure you feel like shit. But I don't feel bad for people who do this, because they are knowingly doing it to themselves. It was self inflicted.

I'm tired of holding someone's body over a toilet, watching them convulse and slip into shock because they drank a half gallon of 80 proof whiskey, while I hold their body up with mine and wonder if they are going to be the next person to die in my house. Will I have enough time to call for the ambulance? What if they stop breathing in their sleep. At this point the person was completely blacked out and unresponsive. I'd ask them their name and they wouldn't even be able to respond. It is SO scary. Its traumatic too. Traumatic means the you can have PTS (formerly known as PTSD) episodes about it because if you've already lost one person or more to suicide, it is easy for others to adopt that mindset and follow it. You have to fight it.

So that's what I'm doing guys. I'm fighting it. And it hurts because I see the people I love ... LOVE ... hurting themselves and those around them by their alcoholism and drug use. And I feel like I am going to wake up one day ... and I'll get that call. I'll get that call that I really don't want to get saying that they died. I don't want to get that call. I don't want any more of my friends to die. I don't want my family members to die.

So I fight. By doing the only thing I can. Telling others that I love them, and that they should talk to someone. I feel like no one listens to me. All I hear excuses. People standing behind what makes them weak instead of facing the facts and being responsible.

Seek counseling. I married a man whos getting a Masters in Counseling. That's 6-8 years of college. He knows what the frick he's talking about. I know a little bit too because I help him study. Go talk to someone. Not your buddy, but a professional. They're are different styles of counseling out there and no two counselors are exactly the same. Look up Gestalt vs. Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. Two huge differences.

And maybe you've found a counselor in the past that didn't listen to you, or you didn't like. Go get a second opinion. Do you marry the first man you date, and then give up on love completely when it doesn't work out? Of course not. That would be an irrational thought. The first counselor I went to didn't work out for me, so I'm never trusting them again. Irrational thought. A thought that actually, sorry to say, does not make sense. I've had some shit doctors. Not all doctors are created equal. Not all counselors are created equal. I can only recommend my own doctors, and counselors, psychologists and psychiatrist.

And did you know? Counselors and therapists cannot help their own friends and family. Its against the rules. Rule number 1) if you give advise to someone and it doesn't work out, especially if that is a family member, you've just ruined your trust and relationship with that person. That person might never trust you again, when you were only trying to help. 2) It weighs on the counselor. Conflict of interest due to personalities involved. Keeping secrets weighs on you. Did you know that ALL therapists and ALL counselors are encouraged by their peers, and other professionals to have their own therapist that they can talk to? Its a heavy line of work, emotionally. Respect.

That's what my husband is dealing with right now. We have had 4 deaths from suicide and overdose within a year. All close family. I've had friends who've lost just as many. 2020-2021 wasn't for the faint of heart, like me. Who is trying to not take everyone else's problems on as her own.

But that is where the inner conflict happens.

I want others to be happy. Codependent issues. I'm working on that.

All I can do is give good advise to those I love, and take care of myself. It just sucks watching them destroy themselves. It hurts.

#mental health #suicide #suicide awareness #anxiety #personal #drinking #food #high on drugs #girls who like drugs #drug blog #drug use #withdrawl #addiction #life #battlefield my life

3 notes · View notes

suncityblues · 3 years

Text

Former Ghosts

Dean/Cas fic ~2k words, pretty fluffy/light AO3 -> https://archiveofourown.org/works/27648394

On TV, hospital rooms are usually these clean, white places with a sunny window and a nice chair in the corner. A family member or loved one would be there, desperately pleading for forgiveness, or redemption, or something like that. The nurses are all hot 20 somethings and doctors take time to talk to the patient and their family in soothing, apologetic tones. By the end of the episode there is either a miraculous recovery or a heartbreaking death.

Dean knows this well, television practically raised him. So no matter how many times he ends up in one it’s still a bit of a disappointment to wake up sweaty and alone in a dark room with puke green walls on one side and a curtain separating another patient on the other. This time, his back hurts like hell and he wants to know where Sam is and what happened to those kids.

As usual, he ignores the disappointed part of him that wanted to have not woken up at all. He’s grown accustomed to that thought over the years, and it’s easy to shoo away, but not as easy as it used to be.

He tries to get up and make a run for it before an orderly notices he’s awake and starts questioning him about the health insurance he doesn’t have, but the moment Dean moves forward he’s overcome with a stab of pain that makes his vision go black in the middle. He lets out a sharp “paaah” sound that hurts his throat, and falls back into place. He feels nauseous and winded.

A heavyset woman in her 30’s comes into the room. “Hello,” she says kindly, “I saw your heart rate was up, do you know where you are?”

Dean shakes his head no.

“St. Sebastian Hospital” she answers, then: “Give me one moment, please.” Dean’s mouth is so dry he doesn’t think he could argue even if he wanted to. The woman pulls his medical chart off the back of his bed and checks it over.

“Mr, ah, Bolan, it seems like you were in a serious car accident and have been out for the last few days. You have a punctured kidney, and quite a few other injuries, you’re really lucky to be alive and recovering as well as you are,” the woman says. There’s a softly scolding tone in her voice. Dean wonders if she thinks he wasn’t wearing a seatbelt or something.

Dean nods at her, feigning repentance. He guesses his full name on her chart must be Marc Bolan, the rock star tragically deceased in a car crash. Good one, Sammy, though a bit on the nose.

Dean’s mouth is still dry so he gestures weakly at his throat. The nurse lightens up.

“I’ll have someone bring you some ice chips, and the attending physician will be in soon to get you up to speed on your recovery.” She points out a little red button attached to his bed, “If you need anything, press this, okay?”

Dean nods.

—

Dean spends the next few days in the hospital. He wants to leave as soon as Sam gets there in the morning but Sam insists he stay the full amount of time that the doctor recommended. He says something to Dean about the possibility of sepsis but Dean doesn’t really listen. He knows how to keep his wounds clean, he’s not some dumb kid.

Eventually Dean gets discharged back to the bunker with a handful of unpaid-for antibiotics and by the time he’s healthy enough to get to the bathroom by himself without blacking out, they get a call. After much hemming and hawing from Dean, Sam goes off to a hunt in Texas by himself. It scares the shit out of Dean to see his brother go alone but he puts on a brave face and pats Sam on the back, like it’s no big deal.

“Call if you need anything. Anything at all,” Dean tells him. Sam rolls his eyes but agrees.

Dean waits. And waits. And waits. And nothing bad happens. Sam comes home victorious. Dean knew he would.

And then Sam goes off by again. And comes back. And keeps doing it. And after a while Dean gets used to it, though he can’t help himself from feeling like the world is moving on without him.

—

Dean’s back still hurts. He feels like a burden to Sam, and to himself. He drinks beer with the dog and watches TV and eats chips, then goes to bed and gets up the next day and does the same thing. Sometimes he’ll help Sam out with research over the phone, and hates that these moments are the highlight of his day, sometimes week.

He tries not to think about Castiel, but almost immediately gives up and starts researching ways to get him back. When Sam is home, sometimes he asks what Dean is up to but Dean can’t bring himself to lie or to tell the whole truth.

“Looking for trouble,” Dean replies jokingly, and lets Sam assume this means Dean’s searching for a new case rather than researching ancient enochian summoning rituals. Because he knows what Sam would say. Cas sacrificed himself so they could win, and he’d want them to move forward. Cas would want them to be happy, and live good lives. Especially Dean.

But, Dean’s not entirely sure he wants to be happy, it would be a pretty foreign feeling after all this time. In fact, Dean’s not sure he wants anything, anymore. Except for Sam to be happy and Cas to be home, with him. He doesn’t think he’ll ever finish processing what Castiel had said to him the last time they had seen each other but Dean reserves the right to try.

Around the time Dean’s back wound is fully healed and he’s ready to start hunting again, Sam runs back into Eileen hunting an angry spirit outside Lafayette. They start spending more time together on the road. Dean is happy for them, though a little sad when Sam starts to move on.

But, the plus side is that this gives Dean extra time to do something very stupid and ill advised without his brother walking in on him.

—

He’s about halfway through the summoning ritual when the candles blow out on their own and Dean feels himself thrown backwards by an otherworldly gust of wind. It hurts badly but the live ram Dean was about to sacrifice seems relieved.

A man in a trench coat appears in the room with a very cross look on his face. The relief Dean feels when he sees Castiel is so powerful he almost needs to sit down.

“Did it work?” Dean asks. “Not even close,” Castiel replies, “You were about to summon a huge sea monster.”

Dean can’t stop himself from smiling anyway. The ram makes a grunting sound.

—

Castiel comes clean that he’d been saved by Jack, and instead of saying anything was waiting for Dean to die of old age and get to heaven, which Dean finds pretty insulting. “Time passes differently in heaven” Cas had said which sounded to Dean like a cop out.

He ignores the fact that, as usual, Sam is right. Dean is actually pretty great at ignoring Sam when he wants to.

“I wanted you to have a real life, Dean,” Cas had said irritatedly, “I wanted you to know happiness and freedom. Freedom from everything.”

Dean doesn’t like Castiel’s tone when he says the word, “everything” because he knows Cas is including himself in that. It pisses him off, in fact.

“So what?” Dean nearly shouts before collecting himself to grit out, “You get to say your peace and then leave? Just like that?” Dean doesn’t add “It’s not fair” but petulantly thinks it. He’s so mad he has to take a step back and breathe through his nose. It had never occurred to him Cas was back and simply didn’t want to see him, especially after what had happened. It stings.

Cas says nothing for a long moment, just levels a sad look at Dean that says the differences are insurmountable between them. That they’re wholly different creatures meant to be on different planes of existence and never meet on earth, and certainly never care for each other. They are, at best, to have a post-life cordial business relationship. Dean huffs. He steps closer to Cas, and Cas lets him.

“You know how I feel, Dean, but...” Cas finally starts but is cut off.

“Okay, well. Do you want to hear what I have to say?” Dean asks. Cas says nothing. Dean can feel himself choking up, which he hates.

“I want to say that I love you too, you know. Love you-love you. And I don’t wanna be here if you’re not around, and I don’t wanna get old without you. I got hurt, bad, after you were gone and I thought to myself: good, finally, this is how it’s supposed to be. Because if you were gone, I wanted to be gone too. I’ve been counting down my days since I was a kid, man.”

He doesn’t cry but his face is hot and scrunched up and he knows he looks like a mess. He doesn’t often let himself willingly experience these feelings, but they’re there. They’ve always been there. They’ve gotten so much worse without Castiel beside him.

Resigned, Castiel replies with absolutely no irony but a bit of pettiness, “Should I have not saved you from those vampire clowns, then? I’m sorry, Dean, I couldn’t help myself. I had hoped you’d be able to outlive John, at least.”

Of course, Dean thinks. Of course you don’t heal that easy from a punctured organ, but what’s a subtle bit of healing magic between friends? The hot air leaves him all at once and he feels empty.

“Cas” he says. He doesn't actually know where he’s going with this. He leans his face close to Castiel, so their foreheads and noses are touching. He is deeply relieved when Cas kisses him.

—

A few days later Sam is surprised to come home to a ram grazing outside the bunker, but not at all to find Castiel and Dean cuddled up on the couch watching movies.

“Welcome home,” he says.

#spn #destiel #dean winchester/castiel #Supernatural #supernatural fic #my fic

4 notes · View notes

knittingdreams · 3 years

Text

Fireheart - Chapter 9

I’ve finally made the masterlist! :D

If you’re not up to date with the story, head there to see what you’ve missed, otherwise, keep on reading!

WARNING: As always, there’s physical violence involved. Wouldn’t expect less from Sam and Aelin xD

CHAPTER 9

I will not be afraid

He had to admit, Rourke had a strong punch and was decently fast. Sam’s head snapped to the side as the fist collided with his jaw. He turned back around to face Rourke, and the fist found him again, hitting the cheekbone right next to his eye.

He noticed the little crowd forming around them, and heard Lysandra’s pleading scream, but Rourke didn’t let go of his shirt, and his two friends were keeping an eye on both ends of the hall; probably ready to tell them if any teachers were to come around. Sam’s senses were on high alert, and he clenched a fist as he tasted blood.

“Not going to fight back?” Rourke growled as he took a quick jab at Sam’s stomach.

Sam doubled over, his breath coming out of him in one fast burst. He could so easily break this guy’s jaw, but no, he couldn’t. The crowd around them had grown too big, and he couldn’t risk it. He unclenched his fist as he tried to take a deep breath and steady his mind. My name is Sam Cortland, and I will not be afraid, he thought as he stood back up, his back straight.

With anger flashing in his face and a clenched jaw, Rourke knocked the air out of him again. He punched him on the side, letting go of his shirt. Then again on his chest as Sam looked up. He lifted his knee to Sam’s stomach as he pushed him down with both hands, getting him right on the sternum.

Sam could taste the blood coating his mouth and feel it dripping down his chin.

Rourke struck against his ribs again, making Sam tumble down. He curled up as soon as his body touched the floor, protecting his head with his hands, and his vital organs with his knees.

Sam took a kick to the side, and then another one. Everything hurt, and he could imagine the bruises already spreading on his skin. A fist collided against the back of his shoulder, and a boot to his kidneys made him arch back. He had been through worse, he told himself. He could take a beating from a school bully. My name is Sam Cortland, and I will not be afraid, he repeated his mantra inside his head.

As another kick hit his lower back, he looked at the crowd between his fingers. He found a pair of dark eyes staring down at him within a face that almost looked concerned. He must have gotten a blow to the head because there was no way Celaena was worried about him. He managed to wink at her quickly before covering his head again as he saw another kick coming his way.

“Hey!” A voice yelled from somewhere close, and Sam heard a loud metallic bang before the foot hit him.

After a moment of lying still and no more blows coming his way, he assessed his injuries by taking a few deep breaths to make sure nothing was broken. No punctured lungs or broken ribs, he thought as he tried to sit down and looked around.

“What in God’s name is going on here?” Principal Allsbrook’s voice reached him in between the crowd.

Sam looked perplexed at the four boys holding back Rourke’s bulky friends. He didn’t know any of them, but he knew they were on the football team. He looked to his side, to the place from where the metallic bang had come from, and he almost gasped as he saw Aedion holding Rourke against the lockers. His forearm was pressed hard against the bully’s throat. The skin around Rourke’s eye was already turning purple, and he had a cut on his brow.

“Ow, fuck.” Sam winced as he stifled a laugh. He couldn’t deny it, deep down he was glad someone had made that dickhead bleed.

“Are you okay?” Lysandra sounded so worried as she reached his side and kneeled next to him.

“I’ll be 'right,” he said with a wink, and then winced again as the pain in his brow made his head spin.

“Rourke Farran, why am I not surprised?” Principal Allsbrook said with a stern and loud voice as Lysandra rested a hand against Sam’s shoulder. “To my office, now!” The principal barked as Aedion let go of the bully. “Ilias Mesterson, Ress Brulleman, Nox Owen, and Ren Allsbrook,” he said as he turned to the rest of the team holding back the other two bullies, his tone dropping lower as he said the last name. “I would like to believe that you were only interceding to stop the conflict. So let those two go, and all six of you, to my office as well. I will hear all of your explanations of what happened as soon as I deal with this.” He cleared his throat as he motioned for the crowd to disperse. “Ashryver, please help Cortland to the infirmary straight away, then come around to my office for a chat after class.”

Principal Allsbrook gestured again for the crowd to keep walking. “To class, everyone, now!” He barked before walking towards Sam. “Are you okay, son?” He asked as he leaned down.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be ‘right,” Sam said one more time.

The principal seemed happy enough with the answer as he walked away, shaking his head as if annoyed to have to deal with the bullies. Sam’s heart started beating faster as Lysandra and Aedion stood one to each side of him and helped him to his feet.

“Holy fuck,” he said as he pressed a hand against his side. “That guy has a decent punch, I reckon he would’ve killed me if you didn’t intercede,” he said as he half-smiled up at Aedion.

The team captain just looked at Sam, his lips pressed in a tight line, and then started walking towards the infirmary, his arm holding Sam from under his armpits.

“We’ll be fine, Lys,” Aedion said after a couple of steps. “You should go to class, you wouldn’t want to be late.”

“Yeah, okay, you’re right,” Lysandra gently let go of Sam’s waist from the other side and looked at him for a moment, her eyes full of unshed tears. “Take care of yourself, Sam Cortland." There was a sad smile on her face as she said his full name again.

“I’ll be right,” he repeated one more time, telling himself it was true.

The walk to the infirmary was slow, and Sam felt relieved once they finally made it and he could lie down on the bed.

“What in Hell happened here?” The nurse yelled as she came in running, holding a hand against her open mouth.

“I got cocky,” Sam said with a small smile, only half of his lips curving up as the other side of his face was already too swollen to react. Aedion flinched at his answer, and Sam couldn’t help but wonder why. The team captain was awkwardly standing by the wall as if trying to stay out of the nurse's way.

“Ashryver, what was your involvement in this?” The nurse asked as she snapped her eyes up at him. She was fumbling around Sam as fast as she could, checking his pupils and cleaning his face with a piece of gauze with antiseptic.

Aedion lifted his hands as in surrender and pressed himself harder against the wall. “Not a thing,” he said, speaking fast. “I wasn’t involved, I only helped Cortland here.”

“Not entirely true,” Sam said as he glanced at him sideways. “Aedion saved me from ending up even worse.”

“Always such a knight in shining armor, Ashryver,” the nurse smiled fondly to herself as she kept cleaning Sam's wounds. Aedion paled at the comment, and looked to the side, making Sam even more curious.

“What do you mean?” Sam asked the nurse as she started patching up the cut on his eyebrow. The nurse smiled warmly, and Sam felt such a motherly feeling coming from her.

“Mr. Ashryver is often breaking fights around here, wouldn’t be the first time I see him in this room,” she said as she finished patching him up. “Now Mr. Cortland, I’m not happy with the way you look and how much damage you sustained, I’m scared you might have a concussion with so much bruising on your face. I’m going to go over and call an ambulance, I want you in the hospital overnight for monitoring.”

Sam’s eyes opened up wide, and he was about to protest, but the nurse just shook her hand in front of his face. “No complaining, my decision is final,” she turned around and walked to the back room where Sam assumed the phone was.

“Fuck,” Sam mumbled under his breath.

Aedion was shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and Sam wanted to tell him he’d be alright, to go away, but he was actually glad for the company. It helped him keep his thoughts from rambling away. Arobynn was going to be pissed off about this.

“I think I should thank you,” he said looking at Aedion and trying to make up a conversation. It was not a good time to think what Arobynn must say or do, he needed to recover first.

“It’s alright, mate,” Aedion said as he chuckled, his normal confident self returning to the surface, even if he still looked somehow uncomfortable.

“Nah, for real, you saved my damn life.”

“I can’t believe that dickhead beat you up badly enough to send you to hospital,” Aedion took a step towards him, sounding angry all of a sudden.

“Is he usually like that?”

“Let’s just say, you’re not the first one, and you won’t be the last… May I ask you something?”

“Sure thing,” Sam was curious about what the team captain would want to know.

“Why didn’t you fight back?” Aedion took another step forward, standing almost next to him.

“What do you mean?” Aedion wasn’t even there when the fight started, how could he know?

“I heard the chatter in the hall, that’s why I went over. They were saying you weren’t even trying, and… why wouldn’t you? I won’t believe you don’t know how to fight, you’re taller than Rourke, you look fit enough...” He trailed off and looked to the side, his cheeks slightly flushed.

“I don’t like fighting,” Sam said, surprised by the truth slipping from his lips; he had never admitted it out loud.

“But you could have at least defended yourself,” Aedion replied, his voice rising. “What is your father going to say when he has to go pick you up from the hospital looking like this?”

“No one will go pick me up,” Sam said with a sad smile. “I’ve… got no parents; they both died when I was young.”

“Oh, I’m. Fuck. So sorry,” Aedion muttered, coming closer and resting a hand over Sam’s shoulder. “I had no idea.” Sam saw the sadness in his expression; he knew well that Aedion understood the pain of losing a loved one, and he felt guilty as the realization hit him. He shouldn’t have brought up that subject.

“It’s okay, my guardian will pick me up,” he said, trying to sound confident and making an effort not to flinch at the thought.

Before Aedion could reply, the nurse walked back into the room.

“The ambulance is on its way to pick you up,” she said with a kind smile. “Mr. Ashryver, you can head back to class, I’ll look after Mr. Cortland until his ride arrives.” Aedion nodded once as he took a step back.

“Well… Get better,” he said before walking out the door.

“He is such a good kid,” the nurse said as she watched him walk away. “The other kids think he’s a bit of a bad boy, but I’ve seen him looking after people in here. That kid has a kind soul,” she was talking almost to herself as she checked Sam’d bandages. “Okay, let’s get you up, I’ll help you to the door, I don’t think you’d want for them to carry you out on a stretcher,” she said, and then laughed.

“You already know me too well,” Sam replied with a huge smile. “By the way, I never caught your name,” he asked as she helped him to his feet.

“I’m Silba, and thanks for asking, you’re probably the first to do so in such a long time.”

***

When Sam woke up in the morning, it only took him a second to remember he was still at the hospital. The smell of antiseptics was lingering in the air and there was too much light in the room as he opened his eyes.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” a sweet voice said by his side.

Surprised, he turned around and smiled at the girl grinning back at him.

“What are you doing here?” He sat up, and pain pinched him on the side as he moved.

“How did you put it yesterday? ‘You shouldn’t be alone while you're in pain’,” Lysandra quoted him with the biggest smile.

“That smile suits you,” he said without thinking.

“Thanks, how are you feeling? Do you want to talk about it? Or do you rather we speak about the beautiful weather outside?” She leaned back in the chair she was seating on, looking confident and comfortable in the little room.

Sam couldn’t help but smile back at her, he was so glad to have someone that cared by his side. It was nice for a change.

#tog fanfic #sam cortland #lysandra #aedion ashryver #celaena sardothien #fireheart #throne of glass fandom

2 notes · View notes

headfulloffantasies · 3 years

Text

The Mouths of Babes

5 times other hunters talked about those Winchester boys

AO3 link

My kofi!

5 times other hunters talk about the Winchesters

Her whole life, Katie had heard stories about the Winchester boys. It started with tales about John Winchester, “and those boys of his.” Shortly after, those same stories turned into tall tales about the Winchesters’ latest great victory. Unbelievable stuff. Dragons. Demons. Fairies. Gods.

Katie’s Uncle Lou would come up to the house with a case he needed help with. He and Katie’s dad would talk a long time, and at the end of many of those talks Dad would say, “This is too weird for us. Leave it to the Winchesters.”

When she turned eighteen and was ready to go on her first solo hunt, Uncle Lou sat Katie down for a talk. If she ever found a case too weird, he instructed her to call him, and he’d call his pal Garth to tell the Winchesters to drop by.

Katie wished she’d listened to Uncle Lou.

She and her partner Leslie slammed their backs against the storeroom door. The thumps on the other side shook the whole doorframe.

“It’s only a shapeshifter,” Leslie sassed, repeating Katie’s words back to her. “It’ll be easy. We’ll be home for dinner.”

“So it’s a shapeshifter family,” Katie grunted as another body rattled the door. “We can still take them.”

“Are you kidding me?” Leslie yelled. “The whole farm is infested. If we make it out of this, I’m going to kill you.”

“I told you we should have left it to the Winchesters,” Katie ground out.

Leslie’s long blonde hair hid her face. “I’m sorry, okay? Next time you can do the research.”

At that moment a bang like a gunshot rang out. Katie instinctively ducked. The doors stopped shuddering under the shapeshifter onslaught. Another bang, and another, accompanied a scream. Then silence.

Katie and Leslie traded a wide-eyed stare.

Someone knocked on the door. Leslie screamed.

“Hey, take it easy,” a male voice said on the other side of the door. “The shapeshifters are dead. You can come out.”

Katie reached for the door handle. Leslie whimpered. Katie cracked the door open. A huge dude stood on the other side with a shotgun in his hands.

Katie raised her machete. “Prove you’re not a monster.”

The guy lowered his gun and pulled a knife from his belt. Katie hefted the machete.

“Easy. It’s silver,” the dude said. He dragged the knife across the skin of his wrist. Blood welled up, but no sizzling smoke.

Katie relaxed slightly. “Who are you?”

“My name is Sam; this is my brother Dean.” Another big dude with shorter hair lumbered out of the dark. He surveyed the area with his shotgun at the ready. Katie recognised the set to his jaw and the position of his shoulders. Her dad hunted like that.

“You’re hunters?”

Leslie crashed into Katie’s side. “Holy crap,” she gasped. “You’re the Winchesters.”

Sam looked startled. Dean swiveled their way, eyeing Leslie with suspicion.

“Yeah, we are,” Sam said.

“You’ve heard of us?” Dean asked.

“I kind of thought you were a myth,” Katie said.

Dean snorted, but a smirk crawled up his face. “Let’s go. We got the rest of the shapeshifters. You did good, all things considered.”

“Except the part where we almost died,” Leslie said.

Hunter wakes were the worst.

Katie wished she was old enough to down the bottle of whiskey on the coffee table in front of her. She didn’t even know the poor dead shmuck. But her dad did, and he insisted Katie should come along to pay her respects.

“Leslie didn’t have to come,” Katie grumbled to herself. She slouched further into the old couch, wanting to sink into the floor.

Everybody clustered around the living room had at least twenty years on her. Nobody wanted to talk to the kid. She didn’t have any stories about Tyler to share. She didn’t have any tears to shed, or laughs to offer. She might as well become the lamp in the corner for all the attention anybody paid her.

A couple of dudes in flannel sat on the other couch opposite Katie. She had tuned out their conversation ages ago. But her ears pricked at a familiar name.

“The Winchesters took out an alpha vampire.”

“You’re taking the piss.”

“No, I’m serious. They got that angel buddy helping them.”

“Dude, I thought the angels hated us.”

“This one’s palling with the Winchesters, I swear.”

“Those boys get weirder every day.”

�� Katie strained her ears while trying to keep her expression blank. But that moment, a fork clinked against a glass. The conversations died.

Katie turned in her seat. Her Uncle Lou stood with a glass upraised in his hand.

“Friends, hunters,” he started. “We are all here today to honour our fallen brother.”

Katie wasn’t listening anymore. Two men had just walked through the front door. The taller stood with his jaw clenched and his brow furrowed as he listened to Uncle Lou’s toast. The other one shuffled his feet and stuffed his hands in his green army jacket.

Sam and Dean Winchester.

Katie fidgeted until the toasts ended. Then she bolted off the couch. She tried to pretend nonchalance as she sidled up to the brothers. They were talking with Uncle Lou’s friend Garth.

“Dude, anytime you want to lose the babysitting gig and hunt with us again, we’ll be there,” Dean said.

Sam caught Katie’s eye first. Recognition sparked across his face. He nudged Dean. “Hey,” Sam said. “You’re that kid from the shapeshifter hunt. Kat?” “Katie,” she corrected him. “How did you know Tyler?” Dean chuckled. “The old coot used to hunt with our dad. We’d see him a couple times a year as kids.”

“Do you actually have an angel friend?” Katie blurted out. She clapped a hand over her mouth in horror.

Dean frowned, but Sam huffed a laugh. “Yeah, I guess.”

“That’s so cool,” Katie squeaked. “I have to go.” Go drown herself in the rain barrel, Katie thought as she turned tail and ran. If she ever met the Winchesters again, she just might die of shame.

Katie scrolled mindlessly through tv channels on the motel room box when a familiar face caught her eye.

“No way.” She flipped back. Katie’s mouth dropped open. Sam Winchester’s face plastered a wanted ad on the late-night news. The image flipped to his brother Dean, looking angrier than Katie remembered him. She turned up the volume.

“-shooting up a diner on the edge of town,” the news anchor reported. “These brothers are reported to be armed and dangerous. The public is being warned not to engage and to call authorities immediately.”

The motel room door opened. Leslie bustled in with her arms full of groceries.

“Look,” Katie pointed at the tv screen. “The Winchesters are on tv!”

Leslie quirked an eyebrow. “For real? What did they do, kill the President?”

“Where are the Winchesters?” The vampire hissed.

Katie’s head spun. Her heart beat slow and sluggish against her ribs. Blood flowed from her wrist over the arm of the chair, staining the ropes tying her down.

“I told you, I don’t know them,” Katie slurred. After three days, she could hardly keep track of the endless questions. She hadn’t seen Leslie since the vampires first jumped them in the barn. Now, in the farmhouse kitchen, Katie didn’t dare think what might have happened to her friend.

“All hunters know the Winchesters,” the blonde vampire snarled. Her needle teeth made it hard for Katie to focus on her words.

“I know who they are,” Katie nodded. She wished she hadn’t. Sparks popped at the edge of her vision. “But I don’t know them. I don’t know where they are.”

“Try right here,” a new voice broke into the conversation from behind Katie’s back. She heard the vamp scream. Something sliced through the air and then two dull thuds hit the ground.

Dean Winchester came into Katie’s field of vision. His green army jacket was flecked with blood.

“You okay, kid?” Dean knelt and untied Katie’s hands.

Katie couldn’t speak. Her throat clogged with tears.

“Hey, I know you,” Dean said. “You’re that Kansas kid from the funeral. Katie, right?”

“Did you find Leslie?” Katie finally forced out. “Is she okay?”

“She’s good,” Dean assured her. He helped her to her feet. Katie swayed. “Hey,” Dean caught her shoulder. “Okay, lean on me. Let’s go find your friend.”

Katie didn’t remember the walk out of the house and into the driveway. But she recalled Leslie slamming into her and wrapping her in a hug. Katie sagged against Leslie. Over Leslie’s shoulder, Katie smiled her thanks to Dean.

Katie didn’t hang out in bars. Especially hunter bars. But she and Leslie needed intel from one of her dad’s hunter pals. He insisted on meeting them at the Old Horse bar off the highway. Stepping through the front door with Leslie, Katie inhaled the stench of depression and stale sweat.

Corky, the old hunter, sat on a stool at the bar. The visor of his old ball cap had ragged edges like his dog had chewed on it.

Katie and Leslie slid onto barstools next to him. Corky lifted red rimmed eyes.

“You’re Hank’s kid?”

“Yessir,” Katie nodded.

Corky’s eyes travelled up and down Leslie. She shifted uncomfortably. The barstool squeaked.

“Dad said you had a weird case,” Katie prompted. “Something better left to the Winchesters.”

Corky scowled. “Them boys are nothing but trouble. You ever see them, run. They tend to leave folks for dead.”

Leslie shot Katie a frown.

“They’ve saved our lives,” Katie said.

Corky snorted. “Sure. And now you’re in their debt. When they need cannon fodder, they’ll call you.”

Katie regretted the drive to talk to Corky. “Do you have a case or not?”

Corky reached into his coat and pulled out a stack of papers. He thumped them down on the sticky bar. “All yours. Couple kids missing all their organs. Hearts, kidneys, livers, the works. I don’t know nothing that harvests all that without taking a bite.”

“How do you mean?” Leslie flipped through the pages.

Corky shrugged. “All the guts were removed surgically. Clean cuts, no fangs, no claws.”

“Weird,” Leslie muttered.

Katie stood. “Thanks for your time.”

Corky swivelled in his seat to watch Katie and Leslie go. “Remember what I said,” he called after them. “Don’t trust those Winchesters.”

Katie saw them first. Sam and Dean Winchester hanging by their wrists from the rafters of an old warehouse. Another unknown man swung next to them. Their boots had drifted lazy patterns through the dust on the floor. A rudimentary system of hoses pierced the crook of their elbows, draining red into bags hanging on crude stands next to them.

Katie’s mind raced through a short list of possible monster culprits. Ghouls, vampires, leviathan…

“Djinn!” Leslie yelled. “Get down!”

Katie ducked. Leslie’s shotgun blasted through the space where Katie’s head had been.

An inhuman screech raised all the hairs on the back of Katie’s neck.

Katie popped up and aimed her gun. Head shot or nothing, she told herself. The longer this fight lasted, the more opportunities the djinn had to ensnare them. Katie got a bead on the djinn’s flaming eyes. She pulled the trigger.

The gun jammed.

Katie cursed. The djinn’s grin glowed under its flaming blue eyes. It moved low and fast. Katie braced herself.

The shotgun blast nearly deafened Katie. Her ears rang. The djinn slumped to the ground.

Leslie dropped her shotgun. The clattering sound was twice as concussive in the silence after the kill shot. Leslie stared down at the body. It looked like a normal middle-aged man without its glowing tattoos. Leslie shook all over.

Katie took her shaking hand and led her over to the three men strung up from the ceiling. Leslie visibly swallowed her nerves. She got to work helping an unconscious Sam.

Katie approached the unknown man at the far end. She pressed a hand to his neck, searching for a pulse. His skin was cold. He was gone. Katie bolted down the rush of emotions. She had to cut him down. He deserved that much.

Katie found a box in the corner of the warehouse to clamber on top of. She withdrew her knife and sawed through the ropes binding his wrists. She eased him down and laid him out. The ropes unwound from reddened wrists gone pale in death. Katie crossed his arms over his chest. It was the best she could do.

Katie got up and shoved the box over to Dean’s side.

Leslie already had Sam down on the ground. She brushed his hair out of his face and tapped his cheek, trying to rouse him.

Katie focussed on the ropes around Dean’s wrists. Her knife severed them easily enough. Dean’s weight slumped against Katie. She stifled a groan. How the hell had Leslie lifted Sam? He had to weigh tonnes more than Dean.

She got Dean on the ground without doing him any serious injury. His head lolled against the concrete. Katie removed the needle in his arm. She tossed the foul thing as far as possible. Now what? She didn’t know how to wake people from djinn dreams. Katie looked over at Leslie helplessly. Leslie reflected the same confusion back.

She gestured to Sam. “He won’t wake up.”

Dean suddenly gasped. Leslie screamed. Dean sat up so fast he nearly headbutted Katie.

“Hey,” Katie held up her hands. “Easy. You’re okay.”

Dean’s wild eyes took in the warehouse and Katie and Leslie. His gaze landed on Sam. His whole demeanor changed. Dean went from coiled to attack to springing into defense. He dove to Sam’s side and repeated Leslie’s gentle taps to the face. It didn’t help.

“Dean,” Katie said. “We tried that. He won’t wake up.”

“Where’s the djinn?” Dean asked without looking up from his brother.

“Dead,” Leslie spat.

Dean nodded. “Good.” He wiped a hand over his face and gathered himself. “Okay. He’ll wake up in a minute now that the djinn’s dead. Help me with him.”

Katie and Leslie took Sam’s left side and Dean took the other. Together they lifted Sam and half carried half dragged him out of the warehouse.

“Why did you wake up but not Sam?” Katie asked as they pushed the warehouse door open.

Dean shrugged and nearly lost his grip on Sam. “I don’t know. The dream started breaking down. Maybe I’ve got more of an immunity to the djinn because I’ve been dosed more than Sam has. Or maybe it was just luck.”

“How many djinn have you killed?” Katie asked incredulously.

“I dunno,” Dean thought. “Three. Maybe four.”

Leslie gave Katie a wide-eyed stare. These Winchesters were crazy.

Dean’s car waited in the back alley under a single street light. It was a beautiful machine. Classic and monstrous in its wide grill and sleek body. Katie and Leslie helped Dean prop Sam up in the passenger’s seat. Dean slapped his brother across the face. Sam jerked awake, spitting and swearing.

Dean and Sam helped Katie and Leslie clear their crime scene. Then they got into their car and drove away.

Before that though, Dean offered Katie a handshake. “We owe you one,” he said.

“I think we’re even,” Katie said.

Dean smiled. “You ever need anything, give us a call.” He gave Katie a phone number scribbled on a Gas n’ Sip napkin.

Leslie and Katie watched the Winchesters’ taillights fade into the dark.

“My dad will never believe we saved the Winchesters,” Katie said.

“I can’t believe we got their number!”

End

If you enjoyed reading, consider donating to my kofi

#supernatural #spn fanfic #sam winchester #dean winchester #hunters #5 things #spn #fanfiction #fanfics

3 notes · View notes

hostgalli19 · 4 years

Text

The Cannibal’s Book Collection - Chapter 3: An Unexpected Pet

Chapter Summary: Will has an unexpected addition to his pack and has unintended consequences that aren't necessarily bad. Note: Afternoon everyone, this is my 6th Hannibal story. I've only been apart of the fandom for 11 days its already affected me. The meaning of "roast (insert name here)" has completely changed and I'm not really sure how to feel.

Thank you to everyone who has read this story, so far. This story is also posted on FFN and Ao3

Length: 2,542 words (4 pages) Tag List: @wilfordwarfstacheisbae, @matt10nt, @fuckmethomasshelby, @lamb-and-knife Link

Date: 16/05/20 Time: 3:39 pm – 6:12 pm

Will had no idea how he ended up adopting a Wendigo. He'd found the Monster trapped in a bear trap in the woods around his house. He had no idea why there was even a bear trap in the woods around Will's house. The thought someone setting something like that in his forest made Will's insides boil.

He had done an extensive amount of research on Wendigo's after finding the one in the forest, hoping to avoid any unwanted surprised in the future. He knew the Wendigo had been hunting in the forest but hadn't a real meal in a long time as evidence by him almost bitting Will's hand when he gave the Wendigo one of the meals Hannibal had cooked.

He found the Wendigo could disguise himself as a normal if rather a large dog and had taken to following him wherever he went. Jack had been annoyed Will had brought one of his stays to a crime scene but soon shut up when Wendi growled and snapped at him. Wendi didn't like anyone in the BAU except for Hannibal.

He was strangely okay with the man. Will had been incredibly embarrassed when Wendi had eaten the meat Hannibal had been preparing in his kitchen when they were invited over to his house. It was then that he remembered Wendigo ate human, he always seemed to enjoy Hannibal's food.

It didn't take Will long after that to figure out what Hannibal was and even less time after that to figure out he was the Chesapeake Ripper. The fact they had kidney pot pie when there had been a Ripper kill that day, the body had been missing several organs, one of which was likely in the kidney pie.

None of which Will got to eat as Wendi had eaten it before he could. Will knew he wasn't going to get to eat any of Hannibal's food in the future if it contained even a little human. He didn't bother trying, telling Hannibal to give the rest of what was going to be his to Wendi. He seemed curious but accepted without much complaint. They had regular meals with Hannibal after that.

Will would bring food for Hannibal to cook, any food Hannibal tried to give Will that had even a little human in its Wendi would eat it before Will got the chance.

Will and Hannibal had just sat down to eat when they got a call from Jack request (read: demanding) their presence as The Ripper had struck again, which wasn’t possible as Hannibal hadn’t been out of his sight for the last six hours. He had been teaching Will how to cook. Wendi stealing bits of meat when he got the chance.

Will definitely knew Hannibal hadn’t been responsible due to the kill only being an hour old at the most, that and all the organs were in their correct place though it looked like the Killer had been in process of removing them from the victim’s body. Wendi had whined and whimpered but stayed near Will’s legs.

Will knew Wendy wanted to eat the body but knew he wouldn’t. Will told Jack someone other than The Ripper had killed this person. They were, however trying to copy The Ripper. Jack hadn’t been pleased when he heard that and made the mistake by hitting Will and yelling at him. Everything stopped.

Will said nothing, he was used to this sort of behaviour what he didn’t count on how Will’s rather big dog and Hannibal would react. Hannibal was glaring at the back of Jack’s head like he was imaging killing Jack. Will knew Hannibal didn’t like Jack. Now he knew Hannibal was The Ripper he knew he had been trying to teach Jack a lesson. One he clearly hadn’t learned but he would learn very soon.

He had been more than rude and callus. He was constantly blackmailing and bribing Will into working for the BAU. It didn’t matter what Will’s emotional or mental state was like or what Will himself thought. Jack didn’t care for him and was only using him because he had a useful gift that allowed him to catch the killers the stalked the streets of Baltimore.

Will knew he would never be able to escape the BAU with his sanity intact. Wendi’s reaction to Jack yelling and hitting Will was far more sudden and rather… violent and made everyone freeze in fear. Everyone but Will and Hannibal. Wendi growled and snapped and snarled at Jack after knocking him to the ground, landing on his chest.

He suddenly looked far bigger then he had before and far more dangerous. Was he always that big? Where his teeth always that sharp? Everyone scrambled to get away from the ‘dog’ that really looked like a dog anymore. He looked much more like a wolf and they couldn’t help but wonder where Will had found him, he was staring down at Jack with unnatural red eyes.

He growled one last time, snapping at Jack’s throat in warning before stalking back over to Will and Hannibal. He looked far more intelligent than any of them had been expecting

It took Zeller a minute to realise Wendi was standing between Jack and Will and Hannibal. He came up to Will’s waist. His ears pinned against his head as he growled lowly in a warning. Zeller, Beverly and Jimmy knew Jack’s treatment of Will had the best chance if he didn’t want to end up injured, that was a clear threat and challenge.

Will’s ‘dog’ would kill them if something were to happen to Will or Hannibal. Will didn’t appear alarmed, just surprised as he petted the top of Wendi’s head. He was staring down at Jack, who had yet to get up with a cold look on his face. Far colder than Beverly expected. None of them really understood Will and how he was able to get inside people’s head but found it creepy, but no one said anything.

They knew they would be screwed with Will’s help so tried to be as nice as possible and stay out of his way as much as possible and get him anything he needed.

Beverly, Zeller and Jimmy knew how Jack got Will to help with them with cases. They knew Jack would continue to use Will until the younger man was no longer any use to them, they had no idea what would happen to Will when Jack no longer felt like he was any use to the BAU. He’d more than likely end up in a mental hospital, being deemed insane due to his work with the FBI.

They knew Jack Crawford held no love for William Graham. He never had, he would continue to use the man in order to catch killers and make himself look better but Will would never get the help he truly deserved because if that happened then Will wouldn't be as good at his job which they all knew would wrong.

Zeller knew Jack Crawford held no love for Will Graham. He never had, he would continue to use the empath to catch killers and make himself look better but Will would never get the help he truly deserved because if that happened then Will wouldn’t be ‘as good’ at his job, which Zeller knew was stupid.

Will would do a better job if he was mentally and emotionally stable and had someone to talk to about his problems and that wouldn’t punish him. It seemed Jack had unknowingly given Will exactly what he needed in order to get better in the form of Hannibal Lector who clearly cared about the man. He may not have outright said it but his actions certainly said more than he ever could.

He cared about Will a great deal, how and when that had happened Beverly, Jimmy and Zeller weren’t exactly sure, but they knew he would do anything for Will. They also knew Hannibal Lector was a very dangerous man and not someone you wanted to get on the bad side of. He was after all capable of killing and would if someone pissed him off enough.

Oh yes, they knew he was Chesapeake Ripper but they never said anything to Jack, he hadn't treated any of them well, he never thought about their feelings or waited for their opinions on things, often pulling them away from their families and friends to help with cases in the early hours of the morning or during important events.

Often pulling them away from their families and friends to help with cases in the early hours of the morning or during important events. Jack would continue to message and call them until they answered and come in and helped with whatever case he needed them for. Yelling at them in front of everyone.

He'd certainly done it to Will plenty of times, regardless of the fact Will was most likely up all night with nightmares or hadn’t gotten any sleep.

He was shorter tempered on those days, Beverly always made sure she had coffee on hand for those days, she knew it helped. If only a little. Beverly, Zeller and Jimmy looked after Will, even if Jack wasn’t going to, even if meant ordering strong, slightly too sweet coffee in the morning and bringing leftovers from the night before then they would do it. Jack never seemed to notice.

Will had put on some weight since he’d met Hannibal which was good. He was far too skinny. Zeller knew the Doctor had been cooking for him and couldn’t help but be a little jealous. Hannibal Lector was an amazing cook and everyone knew it. He would look after Will and would make sure he never got hurt.

In return Zeller, Beverly and Jimmy never told Jack who Hannibal was and made sure he never got too close to figuring it out.

They had their own abilities they had never mentioned to Jack knowing how he treated Will. Jimmy had known Will’s ‘dog’ hadn’t been normal, even if back then he hadn’t been as big as was now. Even if he was perfectly friendly, Jimmy had always felt like it was an act, like he was trying to lull them into a false sense of security and let their guard down.

He had never caused Zeller, Beverly or Jimmy any trouble, one more than one occasion Jimmy had seen him lick the blood off the crime scene and even eating any stray chunk of the body. Jimmy never said anything though. They were fine with him as long as he looked after Will and didn’t cause them too much trouble.

Beverly knew he definitely wasn’t a normal ‘dog’ after he had knocked Jack on his arse with ease. He looked far bigger and lot more threatening and dangerous. She knew without a doubt Jack had better be careful otherwise he might end up the ‘dogs’ next meal and Will would have a perfectly good excuse for why his dog had bitten Jack.

"I told you the Ripper didn't do this Jack, all the organs are here, the Ripper would never leave the organs behind. This killer had is more than likely a Copy Cat as the kill is similar to that of the Ripper's but not at the same time, this Killer was interrupted, likely by the person who reported the death. Now, if you'll excuse me I would very much like to go home and have dinner," Will snapped, his eyes cold and hard.

He did not care for Jack at all. Not that anyone present blamed him. Jack Crawford was a horrible man who only cared about his job and no one else. Jack watched as Will and Hannibal got into Hannibal car and drove off, that huge ‘dog’ sitting in the back seat watching him with. Jack shivered.

----------

Hannibal sat quietly as he listened to Will rant about Jack and how callus and cruel he was, he’d known Jack was using him for a long time, he was only helping the BAU and the FBI because it was the best use for his skills and he could help catch killers. He hadn’t set down any ground rules when he had first come to help and his mental and emotional state was suffering because of it.

He had been getting better since he’d met Hannibal, the nightmares were lessening. He was still having problems with sleepwalking but was learning to deal with it. He no longer changed out of his everyday clothes, ensuring the “went to bed” with warm, thick clothes on knowing he would end up outside at some point during the night.

His nightmares weren’t truly nightmares anymore, they had mostly stopped after he’d found Wendi trapped and hurt in the forest. They were now of the cases he was working on or of Hannibal and the small amount of information he had gathered on the man.

He had been trying to order his mind a bit, hoping it would help him deal with the nightmares. It had. He was getting better at packing the memories away into the different boxes and rooms around his house. He had used the forest to store some of the memories.

Will had been trying to organised his mind a bit, hoping it would help him deal with the nightmares. It had. He was getting better at packing the memories away into the different boxes and rooms around his house. He had used the forest and the river were distractions and protection. His dogs were also added in. Wendi was his last defense. Things changed after he added Wendi. Hobs finally left him alone.

The other ghosts left him alone. He knew he was safe in his own mind, though he was careful when creating his mental world, trying not to wander too far. His body tended to follow his mind. At least he no longer woke up feeling cold. He had been shocked when he had first woke paralyzed and unable to control his body to find Wendi had followed him.

Stand instead of crawling along the ground like he usually did.

He grabbed Will’s wrist and lead him back towards the house, making sure he didn’t trip and helped him to bed before curling around him. Will thanked him for the next day and had explained that he sometimes got sleep paralysis. He was awake but unable to control his body.

Note: Thank you for reading. I should have the next chapter up soon

#Hannibal Lector #Beverly Katz #William Graham #Jack Crawford #Wendigo #my ao3 Hannibal stories

7 notes · View notes

nightofthewerehunty · 3 years

Text

So I’ve forgotten how to use tumblr on my iPad and I can’t do the cut for a read more. Sorry, guys. But here’s my Peaky Blinders fanfiction on the relationship between Thomas and Ada. I’ve given the link to AO3 above so use that if you’d like to comment. Cheers!

Rot

When she’s feeling unkind towards herself, she thinks there’s a rot somewhere hidden, festering and spreading through her veins. Soon it’ll reach her heart. Or maybe that’s where it was hidden. Where it started, her black heart. Ada would know if she ever payed attention to that particular organ. Kidneys? Sure, have a look. Liver? Yes please, she needs it to drink. But her heart? Well, does it matter where the rot came from once it gets there? Ada doesn’t think so. And she feels it, burning and burning and burning away inside her chest until its all she can do not to cut out the charred organ herself. She thinks of Freddie, not out of love which may seem cruel, but out of curiosity. Would the infection have spread if he was alive? If she was a romantic, which she’s not, she’d have said that she doesn’t have a heart to infect. Buried it long ago with her husband, and then again with her morals, and then again with Grace so maybe Freddie’s death started something but it was something that would have happened even if he lived. Taken a little longer, maybe, but happened all the same. When she’s feeling kind towards herself, she gives the rot a name; she calls it Thomas.

Ada spends her life reading the moods of Thomas Michael Shelby and she’s perfected it after the war. She’s learned to hear the unspoken in his words. The threats behind his whims. It’s business, Ada. That’s what she tells herself and that’s what he says. It’s all just business. Legal. Illegal. On the books or off. It doesn’t matter. It’s just business. But that was before Grace, before the Russians. Tom’s different now and all her hard work of understanding him is thrown to fucking shit. How can she hear his unspoken words if he doesn’t fucking talk anymore? It’s all just lists now. Pieces of paper she has to burn when she’s through and it takes everything inside her not to chuck Tommy into the flames with his small written words. Did you get my list, Ada? Did you make your list, Ada? Have Arthur and John got their fucking lists, Ada? And Pol says he’s grieving, to give him time and he’ll be back. Back with the family where he belongs and Ada thinks while Polly drinks that Tom’s never belonged anywhere. At least, not after France. Not after the mud and the blood and the fucking bleak midwinter that the brothers always reference as if she doesn’t know what it means. As if it was something far removed from her. As if she wouldn’t be losing her entire fucking family if the bleak midwinter where to rear its bloodied, muddied head.

Ada knows about grief. She’s studied it her whole life. First with her mother and then with her father. Then Freddie and that took more than she cares to remember to make it out the other side. But she had Karl and that was important. Tommy has Charles and that’s good, but what Tommy needed was Grace. Ada won’t speak to love on another’s behalf, but if she was forced to, she’d say that Tommy belonged with Grace. And if she was drunk, like proper drunk and asked, she may even say it was Grace who lifted Tom out of the mud and the tunnels and the blood. Then Polly would roll her eyes while sipping her whiskey and Ada would remind her that she’d already said she didn’t want to talk about love while she fills her glass back to the top again. Back to the top, Ada thinks and swirls the contents of her glass. Tommy’s always trying to get back to the top. Top of the business. Top of the family. Top of the earth and tunnels and mud and fucking everything else he was before he was buried in France.

“What if you don’t get back?” She finds herself asking him one evening after too much wine and too many cigarettes and then a few more whiskeys to remind herself why the wine was too much.

“Back where?” He says after a pause to light his cigarette and he stares. His eyes catch the light of his flame and the gold of his whiskey, and for one moment, for one short, tiny, little fucking moment, he appears as a man. Just a man with his vices.

“I don’t know, Tommy. Wherever it is you need to get back to.”

Thomas puts out his cigarette with force; it’s his favorite thing to do when he doesn’t like the direction of a conversation. When it feels out of his control. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Mrs. Thorne,” he says and his contempt rolls off his tongue into her ears. She’s not Ada tonight. She’s a stranger sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong. And if she wasn’t so angry at being shut out, she might revel in the idea that she understands him again. That he’s back to speaking words and not writing them.

“What I mean is, Mr. Shelby,” she spits, “will it be worth it? All this? All you’ve done?” Ada watches the questions roll off Tommy’s face as he reaches for his cigarettes again. He slips one between his lips with an upward tilt of his mouth; it’s the sorta expression he wears when he finds things funny.

“I don’t know, Ms. Shelby.” So she’s back to being a Shelby now. Tommy always did like it when she fought back. That’s our Ada, he’d say when she’d come home with her bloody lips from her scraps by the cut. What poor soul crossed you today, he’d joke as if he didn’t know the reason for her bruises. As if they could pretend in that one childish moment that they weren’t scum. The lowest of the low. Poor and Gypsy and fatherless and motherless. Our Ada, he’d say as if they didn’t all spend every fucking second of their lives outside their home fighting because the world picked the fight first. “Is it worth it?” Tommy muses while he lights the tip of his smoke and stands. “You tell me,” he says and walks to the cabinet to pour himself another drink. “Those furs, that wine, your home in London. Is it worth it, Ada?”

“I’m not talking about me, Thomas,” she says angrily while sloshing some whiskey from her glass. She wasn’t expecting him to ease back into his gentle threats as soon as he began speaking again. But that’s her fault. Tommy’s a cornered beast. She knows that. Grief can make an animal still but it’ll never defang it.

“And what are you talking about, eh?” He asks louder than her outburst without turning away from his liquor cabinet. “You talking about business?”

“Fuck the business, Tom! For fucks sake!” She yells. “When was the last time you saw Charlie? You spend ten minutes with him every morning and night, that’s it,” Ada takes a pause to sigh and sip her drink. Tommy won’t look at her. He sinks his head down to rest by his glass. “He asks for you, Tom. And that’s so important right now, that he’s asking for you.” He raises his head to down his whiskey. She’s pissed him off; she can tell by the slam of his glass and the jerky motion of him refilling it. She’s too close to saying what Tommy won’t allow to be said. Grace may be dead, but God help you if you acknowledge it.

“And what does it matter to you? Eh?” He stalks towards her and points, his full glass held in front of him as if it were a bayonet at the end of his loaded words. “What is it you fucking want, Ada?” The hardness of his face makes her tense more than his volume. And then she understands his words and they pierce her skin like little needles all over. The words travel up her veins and through her blood. There it is, she thinks. The fucking rot. That he really believes this to be a transaction. That Ada would ever use his pain like that. “Please fucking tell me,” he continues, “so’s I can give it to you and you can get out of my FUCKING HOUSE.”

“I’m here because you asked me to watch your son while you were away, you fucking asshole!” She’s had too much whiskey to handle Tommy unhinged. She’ll just make it worse, she knows that. She should stop talking, go to bed, but she’s so angry and it’s that fucking infection. That rot spreading out through her heart. Tommy’s a curse, she thinks. “I tell you there’s a child up there asking for his father and the first thing you think is ‘what’s my angle?’ It’s love, Tommy. And children need it.”

“Don’t fucking tell me how to raise my son, Ada.” He lowers himself down with his words and she finds herself inches from Tommy’s wide-eyed rage. “I love him,” he says, “And I would do fucking anything for him so don’t fuckin’ talk to me about love.”

Now she needs to be quiet. Tom’s one of those wire-trapped rooms he talks about from France. And right now, in this exact moment, he’s handed her the wire cutters. Ada knows to stay still in these situations but the whiskey, or maybe it’s the wine, makes her clumsy.

“She’d want you to spend time with him,” she says and she can see the explosion in his eyes before he turns and throws his glass at the wall. She found the fucking grenade alright. Tripped right over it. He grabs her chin with his now free hand and Ada thinks about the days when he just wrote fucking lists. How could she be so naive as to think talking with him was better?

“She’d want a lot of things, Ada, so many fucking things. And the first thing she’d want would be to not be fuckin’ dead.” She’s aware of the pressure from Tom’s fingers but it doesn’t bother her as much as the difference between Tommy’s face and his voice. He’s so pale and still with his wet and red-rimmed eyes. He barely moves his lips while speaking and he looks hollow. Looks dead. But his voice shakes over every word, every syllable. She can feel the grief and anger settle between the centimeters that separate their faces. He’s losing to it. Or maybe he lost long ago and she never wanted to admit it. Tommy tightens his grip on her. “So don’t sit in my fuckin’ house, drinking my fuckin’ whiskey and tell me what Grace would want.” The second he spits out the words, he pushes her face back and lets go of her chin, but it takes days for Ada to forgot the feeling of his fingers digging into her jaw.

There’s so much to do in London and Ada needs to feel alive. Being surround by death her whole life, she thinks she deserves it. And todays version of life is in a pub with a man and lots and lots of gin. He’s a foreigner, an American, which is better for her since he doesn’t know what her last name means.

“Your drink, Ms. Shelby,” the barkeep says while setting her gin and tonic in front of her. He spares the American a nod and moves on.

“He didn’t ask you to pay,” notes the yet unnamed man.

“Got a tab,” Ada shrugs. “But more importantly, have you got a room?” The American returns her flirtatious smile.

“Of course,” he says,”Would you like to see it?”

The act is enjoyable enough and the American, named Frank she’d learned, is a generous lover, but once it’s done, she just wants to be home. Take a bath, have some tea, maybe read a little and then go to bed. She tells herself it’s late, and it is, but she knows that’s not why she wants to go. Poor Ada, she thinks. Wants so bad to feel alive but gets tired of it after only four hours.

“I’m here until Thursday,” says Frank. “Will I see you again?”

“Doubt it,” Ada says while fixing her stockings, “But you’re a good man. You’ll be alright.”

She turns the key to her door and steps into her home already warmed by a fire. She hadn’t done that. Cautious now and wishing she’d let Arthur give her that gun Monday, she sets her purse on the table near the door. For’s protection, he’d tried to tell her. Just in case, but ya don’t need to worry, Ada. We got men out there, he’d said, we’ll keep ya safe. Safe, she thinks now as she creeps down her hallway. She’ll never be fucking safe, not with family like hers. Not with her last name - either of them.

“Whose there?” She calls out before she gets closer to the drawing room.

“Hello to you too, Ada,” comes Tom’s reply. He stands by the fireplace, a glass of Ada’s whiskey already in his hands and a smoke hanging from his stern-set lips.

“Fucking Christ, Tommy,” she snaps while pulling off her gloves and tossing them onto the chair. “I locked the door. You said there weren’t anymore spare keys.”

“I lied,” he says, “Where’s Karl?”

“With Pol, but you already knew that seeing as how you know everything.” She hasn’t spoken to Tommy since she set off the bomb back at his place. That was almost three weeks ago.

“I know you wouldn’t take the gun from Arthur,” he says after a sip of his drink. Ada walks over to pour one for herself and snatches the offered cigarette from Tommy’s outstretched hand. “It makes me uneasy, Ada,” he continues, “You out there, unarmed.” He motions towards the outside with his drink.

“He says you’ve got men watching the house.” She stops to drink and smoke.

“We do,” he agrees and clears his throat, “But it still makes me uneasy.”

“Imagine that,” she scoffs, “Thomas fuckin’ Shelby, uneasy.” She turns from him to sit on the couch. She’s too tired for this. To decipher the meaning behind his words.

“Yeah,” he nods, “It makes me uneasy. You walking around unarmed, meeting with foreigners, going back to their hotels.” So that’s what this is, she thinks. He’s not uneasy. He’s mad. But Ada’s mad too. Fucking enraged, actually. The audacity of Tommy, thinking he can come into her home and wait up for her like she’s some fucking child who snuck out the house.

“Why don’t you just say what it is you want to say, Tommy,” she says. “Because if it wasn’t a foreigner, it be some man from London, or some poor soul from Birmingham. Or maybe it’s that I was out at pub? You think that improper now, is that it?”

“You usually stay out this late, Ada?” He asks without answering any of her questions.

“No,” she bites out. He nods and turns from the fireplace to sit in the chair across from her. He sets his drink on the table between them and leans back in his seat. So self assured. So fucking full of himself in her home at two in the fuckin’ morning. She hates him and with that hatred she feels the heat of that festering rot closing in around her heart, making its beats wild and bucking like a untamed stallion chained in her chest.

“That’s good,” he says. “Good it’s not a habit for you to be stepping out with American men named Frank until two in the morning.”

“Oh my god,” she sighs while she hangs her head low into her hands. “He’s not important, Tom. He’s here on holiday. He doesn’t know shit.”

“I know,” he says after a pause and sip. “I know a lot about Frank as it is. I know he arrived Sunday. He’s leaving Thursday. And he’s got a room down at the Richmond.” He stops to clear his throat and put out his cigarette. “He’s a banker,” he continues, “Works with Fryman’s Investors. Divorced. His ex-wife lives in Vienna with her bohemian lover. The bohemian’s a painter.” She can feel him watching her. Seeing if she’ll react to his words. She doesn’t want to look up. To see the smug expression he’s wearing. She’s so fucking tired, so fucking tired of this. And of him.

“I can do what I want, Tom,” she says, “I can see who I want, and I can fuck who I want.”

“Can you?”

She jerks her head up at his question. “Yeah, I fuckin’ can,” she says while staring into his cloudy blue eyes. If their not clear, his eyes that is, it means he’s drunker than he acts. Damn the Shelby men and their fucking alcohol tolerance. How long had he been drinking her whiskey waiting for her to get home? “So is that it, then? Are we done now? Can I go to bed like I wanted to when I got back to my fucking house?” She finishes her words with the last of the whiskey in her in glass. Tommy shifts in his seat to bring out his cigarette holder and lighter before he stands and grabs the whiskey off the mantle. He fills his glass, then Ada’s, and he sits back down while straightening out his jacket like a fucking king.

“No, we’re not done,” he says and lights up a smoke. “There’s some business.”

“I don’t give a fuck about business, Tom!” She snaps. “I want to go to bed.”

“There’s some business that you need to know about,” he continues as if she never spoke. “It’ll affect the family, and that includes you, no matter how much you fight it.” He points at her with his cigarette. “So from now, stay away from London pubs. Stay away from foreigners. And get back home before ten.”

“I’m not a child, Tommy.”

“Yeah?” He says sharply as he leans forward, “Then stop fuckin’ acting like one.”

She wants to cry. Not because what he says hurts; that doesn’t matter anymore. Ada wants to cry because she’s not allowed to have anything. Her home? That’s Tommy’s and the endless supply of spare keys he seems to have is proof enough of that. Her whiskey? Paid for by the Shelby Brothers Limited. Her time? Well, there’s a curfew in effect for that and watchdogs to enforce it. And now, her body. The last bit of herself she foolishly thought she owned. Tommy’ll decide who she can give it to, and if she’s being honest with herself, although honesty has always hurt Ada, she’s never really believed it belonged to her anyway. His grip on her heart tightens and tightens and tightens until the stallion bucking away inside her breaks under his slip lead. Tommy’s always had a way with horses and apparently that extends to the fucking metaphorical one she invented to justify the wild beats in her chest.

“It’s not fair,” she says, “It’s not right. You can’t control people like this, Tom. You just can’t.”

“Everyone else is following the same rules, Ada.” He breathes out smoke with his words. “And they don’t seem to have a problem following them.”

“Because who can say no to Thomas Shelby?” She shakes her head, and downs her whiskey, and reaches for another cigarette. She needs something in her hands or she’ll be tempted to lay them on Tommy. To make him feel every blow to her ego he’s ever dealt.

“No, because when I tell them to do something,” he says, “They know it’s for their own good. They know it’s for a good fucking reason.” He leans over to fill her glass again. From her bottle. Sitting in her chair and still ruling over every aspect of her small, little life.

“A good reason? Yeah, I bet you’re just fuckin’ full of them, Tommy.”

“Ada.”

“Fuck off, Tom!” She says loudly and drunkenly. If he keeps pushing her, she’ll let go. Just let the gin and the whiskey do the talking. God, how she wishes she would. Someone has too. Someone has to fucking stop him before he breaks everything. Before he breaks her. “I have to be up early,” She says, “I have to get Karl from Polly in the morning. Just let me go to bed, Tommy, please.” It’s the alcohol in her that lets slip the please. She’d never beg sober.

“Alright,” he says as he pushes himself to his feet. “That’s alright, Ada. We’ll talk again. Soon.” She doesn’t follow him to the door. She just waits to her the click of the lock before she lets loose her tears.

II.

The restrictions are lifted soon enough when the business is resolved, but Ada can’t stop thinking about it; the chokehold she felt that night. She can’t stay here. She’ll go raving fuckin’ mad. She tries to remember herself. The woman who fell in love with Freddie Thorne. The woman who stood in no-man’s land between two of the stupidest groups of men she’d ever witnessed. Where’d she gone? Ada begins looking for her. In her lipsticks. In her perfumes. In her silk robes. Where could she be, the old Ada? She doesn’t allow herself to consider the worst; that the old Ada died. Succumbed to the infection called Thomas Shelby. She hears Karl waking in the other room and she stands from her kitchen table, silk flowing behind her as she walks through the cold hall towards her son. Sometimes, she feels afraid to love him. Karl’s all she has that’s rightfully hers. And if she acknowledges it, if she makes her claim, she knows Tommy’ll make his. He’s part of the family, Ada, she can already hear him saying it. Ada opens the door to Karl’s bedroom, and her son turns his beautiful, little face towards his mother.

“Good morning, my love,” she says softly and crosses the room to sit on his bed. She smoothes the soft hairs of his head and leans in to kiss his temple. Thomas will never have her son, she thinks with her lips pressed against Karl’s skin. She pulls back and smiles with wet eyes. “Let’s get you some breakfast, yeah?” she says while prodding the boy from his bed. Her son’s a Thorne, not a fucking Shelby, and if Tom ever tries to take Karl from her then God help him. She’ll take his fucking eyes. And it’s with that thought she realizes she knows where to look for the old Ada.

Of course, she still lets Karl see his cousins. It’d be cruel to deny the children like that. Kids are kept far away from the business anyway and that’s all the interaction Tommy gives Ada nowadays. So she gets confused when Tom stays sitting after she gives the name of the Bolshevik agitator. Then he mentions the position in Boston and while he describes it, she knows that he knows how fucking scared she is. And being the gracious man he is, he offers a different continent and a whole fucking ocean to protect her son from him. She knows it’s the closest she’ll ever get to a promise from Tom. Her son’s a Thorne, would say the ocean separating them from him. It’s also the closest she’ll get to acknowledgment from Tommy about his treatment towards her. It means he knows about the slip lead, the infection, and the fucking rot she’s tried so hard to keep hidden. Thomas fucking Shelby knows everything and still nothing matters to him.

She gets closer to Lizzie then she ever thought she would. Ada tries hard to not judge others, but Lizzie’s reputation had stood between them so long that she forgot. And it’s not until late one evening at the Shelby Brothers Limited almost four hours after close that Ada realizes she thinks of Lizzie as a friend. She watches the tall, dark haired beauty pour herself a drink and she sees the tired lines running through Lizzie’s face and the way her body struggles to keep her hand from shaking while she pours.

“You alright there, Lizzie?” Ada asks.

“Yeah,” Lizzie chuckles, “I’m alright.” Ada knows that line. Says it herself about five times a week.

“Is it Tom then?”

Lizzie chokes on her drink but Ada can tell it’s a laugh. “Is it that obvious?” Lizzie asks while wiping her mouth. “Of course it is,” she continues, “It’s fuckin’ stamped on my forehead.” She walks back over to where Ada sits and sinks into the chair next to her. “It’s my fault, really,” she says and takes the cigarette offered to her from Ada. “You know, I thought,” she pauses to light her smoke, “Working here, getting paid as secretary and not a whore. I thought it’d make me feel better. So it’s funny, really, how much worse I feel.”

Ada wants to tell Lizzie that she’s not a whore. Not anymore. But she can’t. The words get choked up in her throat and make her want to gag. Because they’re not true, are they? And Lizzie’s past might make it easier for the reformed street-walker to accept Tommy’s treatment. To take his words and actions as the paid wounds they are. And maybe that’s what Ada hates most about him. That he makes her, his sister, feel like a common fucking whore. Every bit of her up for sale.

“Well, you know Tom,” Ada says as she stands and pours herself another glass of whiskey. She holds the bottle out for Lizzie and the beauty leans forward to take it from her hands. “Everything has its price,” she says with a swig from her drink, “And God knows he’s got the money to pay for it.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Lizzie says while holding out her glass with a shake of her head. Ada clinks the glasses together and smiles.

“You’re not alone,” she says softly, “Not anymore.”

“It was simpler when he just wanted to fuck,” Lizzie muses then she looks up at Ada with a slight blush. “Sorry,” she continues, “I know he’s your brother.”

“Me? Related to Thomas Shelby?” Ada asks. “That’ll be the fuckin’ day.” She finishes the brown liquor in her glass and puts out of her smoke. Then she considers Lizzie’s words and she finds herself asking a question before she’s had time to think about asking it. “He doesn’t fuck you?”

Lizzie stops mid-sip to bring her eyes back from their distance and look to Ada. She swallows and sets her glass on the desk in front of them. “No,” she says, “Tom’s been seeking other women these days. Never the same one. Never more than once.” Ada nods as if the information fits into some sorta puzzle she didn’t know she was solving. “They all look the same though,” Lizzie continues, “And I don’t say it meanly, but they all look the fuckin’ same.”

“Like Grace?” Ada asks as she grabs another cigarette and lights it.

“No,” Lizzie says as she pours herself more whiskey. She caps the bottle and pushes it away from her. “No, Ada,” she sighs, “Not like her. None of them look like Grace.”

Ada tucks her conversation with Lizzie away into the cobwebbed corners of her mind. Then she forgets about it and it stays tucked away there for all of about three weeks until she goes to visit John and Esme. It’s a lively household. Makes makes her home feel haunted by comparison. If it’s not the children, running around and yelling at the top of their lungs, it’s Esme and John themselves screaming. And for all the yelling and noise that can be heard at their home, she knows it’s a happy one. They both have tempers, she won’t lie about that, and they both have too much pride. Ada’s been between enough fights of theirs to know that. But they love each other. And she bets Thomas didn’t see that coming when he forced them to get married. But isn’t love always Tommy’s weakness? She sits in the parlor of John’s home and listens to Esme loudly tell him that she didn’t want company tonight. That’s fine, thinks Ada. She doesn’t want to be here either. But Shelby business can’t wait, can it?

“Did you want some tea?” Esme asks with narrowed eyes as she sits herself across from Ada.

“No,” she answers as she takes off her gloves. “But I’ll have some whiskey if you’re pouring.”

“We’re always fuckin’ pourin’ round here,” Esme mutters as she grabs two glasses and a bottle off the mantle. “John’ll be down soon.”

“Okay,” Ada nods as she looks around and then she feels compelled to add, “It’s not just John, you know? Who I’m here to see.”

“Sorry for not jumpin’ for joy at seeing Tommy’s favorite lapdog,” Esme says as she takes a healthy gulp from her glass. Ada sighs and drinks her whiskey. She used to be close with Esme. She’s not really sure where the relationship went sour, but it probably has something to do with the rot. Ada’s missed a lot of things trying to fight the infection. At least the Gypsy will still drink in her presence. “So what were you doing there then?” Esme asks.

“Doing what where?” Ada says and fishes her cigarette holder out of her pocket.

“At the Ritz,” Esme continues, “My cousin says she saw you. Walkin’ arm in arm with Thomas after midnight.”

“I haven’t been to the fuckin’ Ritz,” Ada says. “Tell you cousin to get some fuckin’ glasses, yeah?”

Esme shrugs as if her earlier words didn’t mean anything. “I’m just tellin’ you,” she says, “So’s you can be more cautious in the future. Eyes out there everywhere.” Ada stops before she lights her smoke. She doesn’t understand.

“I’m not lying,” is the only thing Ada can think to say. “I wasn’t at the Ritz.” John walks into the room as she finishes her sentence.

“Fuckin’ hell, Esme,” he says as he grabs a glass from above the fireplace and walks towards the bottle on the table. “I told you it wasn’t Ada,”

“Right,” his wife agrees, “And now I asked her myself so I believe you. Both of you.” Esme stands and finishes her drink. “I trust my ‘usband to tell me whatever it is you got to say so I’ll be leavin’ now.”

“Yeah, fuck off,” John calls over his shoulder as he pours himself a whiskey. “Fuckin’ hell,’’ he mutters.

“Still in the honeymoon period, eh, John?” Ada can’t help but tease.

“Fuckin’ honeymoons,” he says while shaking his head. “You know, we haven’t taken it yet? Our fuckin’ honeymoon. And every time I ask her where she wants to go, she says she wants to go the fuckin’ pastures. Like I want a honeymoon spent in horse shit. Can stay in Small Heath for that.” He tips the contents of his glass down his throat and turns towards Ada. “So what’s he got to say then?” He slams his glass on the table and wipes his mouth. “Another fuckin’ list?” John asks as he holds out his hand.

“Yeah,” she sighs. “It’s another fucking list.” Ada shifts in her seat to bring out the folded piece of paper from her pocket for John.

“Great,” he says as he snatches it from her hand. “I was startin’ to worry, you know? Hadn’t gotten one in the last eight fuckin’ hours.”

“He’s trying his best, John,” and even Ada doesn’t believe the words she says.

“Yeah, I know,” John says as he swipes at his nose. She figures their sibling bond is the only thing that stops him from pushing the lie. He pulls a cigarette out his pocket and sits in the chair Esme left empty. “I believe you,” he offers as he lights his smoke and for one moment Ada thinks John might be stupid. “That it wasn’t you at the Ritz, that is,” he continues, “Not the other fuckin’ thing.” He motions towards Tommy’s list with his words. There it is, Ada smiles to herself. You can’t bullshit John and it’s good to know that hasn’t changed. He reaches for the bottle to pour another drink and sinks back into his chair with his full glass. He looks beyond strained. More like defeated. Not that it’s unexpected given the circumstances, but John’s usually faster to bounce back from Tommy’s callousness. But it’s been going on for nearly four months now so she can’t really blame him. His vest is crumpled under his jacket and it brings out the little boy hiding in his features. Ada knows if Arthur saw him like this, he’d slap his back. Come on now, he’d say. Things to do, Johnboy, ya know how it is. But it shouldn’t be like that, should it? It’s wrong, what Tommy asks of his family. Our Johnboy, she thinks and puts out her cigarette. Boy is right; he’s got too much youth left to let Tommy beat it out of him like this.

“But she did look like you,” he says and his words spark that tucked away memory of her conversation with Lizzie. “And it’s not the first time it’s happened.” He looks to the side as he speaks and lights the almost forgotten cigarette in his hand. “I wasn’t gonna say nothin’ but Esme.” He stops and sniffs before he gulps half the whiskey in his glass. “Well, she’s little rough, I know,” he continues, “but she’s a good woman.” John stops again with a sigh. He shifts in his seat and takes a long drag from his smoke as if he needs to consider his words carefully. As if what he’s got to say is something Ada won’t want to hear and he’s need to figure out how to frame it first. God bless him, she thinks. John may be able to see through bullshit, but he sure as hell can’t hide his. “It worries her,” he says, “that’s all,” and that he ends up on those words after all his seemingly careful deliberation bothers her. How odd. How honest. How like her Johnboy. Ada doesn’t know what to say so she drinks instead.

Regardless of her current standing with Esme, Ada respects her. The woman has intuition and the backbone to defend it. Esme reminds her of Polly sometimes and she wonders if that’s how Pol might’ve been while young. Headstrong, loud, and drunk, but full of the world’s secrets. Ada sits by Polly’s desk at the Shelby Brothers Limited late one evening and watches the older woman write in shorthand, her pen moving like wildfire across the paper.

“What?” Asks Polly.

“Nothing,” Ada shrugs. Pol stops writing and looks up at her. “Really, it’s nothing, Pol,” Ada says. The older woman stares at her a moment too long before she looks back down at her paper and begins her furious writing again.

“Sure,” Polly says, “It’s always nothing, isn’t it?” Ada rolls her eyes at Polly’s words. “This whole family is full of nothing.”

“Don’t take your anger out on me, Pol,” she sighs. “Whatever he’s done now, it’s not my fault.”

“Who said anything about me being angry?” The older woman snaps as she slams down her pen. “And why should I be angry? It’s doesn’t have anything to do with me. Nothing does, nowadays.” She opens her cigarette case and pulls out a long, black smoke before tapping it on the desk. Polly lights her smoke while narrowing her eyes at the flame then flicks the smoldering match to the ashtray. “So you’ve thought about Boston?”

“Yeah,” Ada says after a pause to light her own cigarette, “I think it’ll be good.”

“It’ll be a lotta work,” says Pol, “But that might be what you need right now. God knows a bored Shelby is a curse on the world.” Ada thinks about reminding Polly that she’s a Thorne now, but the words take too much effort so she lets them stay resting under her tongue. Her Aunt has her eyes closed with her head leaned back against the top of the chair. If Ada’s going to ask what she wants to, what she came here to ask, it should be now. While Pol is resting and unawares.

“Has Esme talked with you?” Ada asks.

“Oh god, why?” Asks Polly as she sits up straight in her chair and puts out her cigarette. “It’s not the count, is it?” she continues while standing and turning towards the back room containing the safe. “I swear, the women these boys bring into our home.”

“No,” Ada says before Pol can leave the room. “It wouldn’t be about business.”

Polly stops with her back facing Ada. “Should we have a drink?” She asks while turning towards the draw hiding the always present bottle. “Feels like this is a conversation where we’ll want one.” She pours two glasses of whiskey without waiting for Ada’s reply. Then the older woman walks back to her desk and holds out the glass for her niece before sitting back down. “So what would this talk with Esme be about?” Polly asks after a sip.

“Well, if you haven’t had it yet, you can’t tell me, can you?” Says Ada.

“I thought I was asking you,” says Pol as she slips out another black cigarette to sit between between her lips and then lights it. She sits quietly with her eyes focused in the distance and Ada can see her mind running through all the possibilities. “What’d John do this time?” Polly finally asks.

“Nothing,” Ada chuckles, “At least not yet, anyway.”

“Right, so it’s not about business and it’s not about John,” Polly muses and traces her fingers over her lips. Running more scenarios, Ada thinks to herself with a smile. Then her eyes shift back to Ada’s and Pol drops her hand from her face while setting her glass down on the desk. “Is it Tom?”

Just as Ada is about to nod, she sees a figure in the corner of her eye, watching them both from the doorway; an ember at the tip of his smoke illuminates the face in the dark. “Tommy! Christ!” Ada cries.

“Oh god, is it that bad?” Polly asks while seemingly unaware that the topic of their conversation stands behind her in the doorway. As if his name somehow summoned him like devil he is. He moves silently into the room like a fucking ghost.

“Hello, Pol,” he says but his eyes stay steady on Ada. Polly gasps and puts her hand to her chest.

“Oh fuck,” she sighs and moves her hand from her chest up to her temple. “Lost about five years just now and I don’t have them to lose, I’ll have you know.”

“Have I interrupted something?” He asks as he sits in the empty chair next to Polly and across from Ada. His sister drinks from her whiskey and looks away from Tom’s eyes.

“You did,” says Polly, “but when have you ever cared?” She stamps out her smoke with her words. “So what are you doing here?” She continues. “Arthur said you wouldn’t be in until noon tomorrow.”

“Arthur doesn’t know everything, Pol,” Tommy says and Ada stands to refill her glass. “I’ll have one,” he adds and clears his throat. Ada looks up at the ceiling willing God to give her the strength she needs not to throw the bottle at Tommy’s head before she grabs another glass and fills it. She sets the bottle down harder then she means to and Tom raises his eyebrow at the sound.

“Sorry,” says Ada and hands him his drink before sitting back in her seat.

Polly shifts her eyes back and forth between the two siblings. “Right,” she says, and Ada knows her aunt’s trying to read the unspoken in the room. Well good fucking luck, Ada thinks. Lately, even she doesn’t know what Tommy’s not saying.

“Well, continue your conversation then,” he says before he takes a sip of his drink and fixes his jacket. “What does Esme need to talk with you about?”

“I don’t know,” replies Polly. Ada can feel the older woman carefully measuring out her words. “We’ve only just established it’s not about business, John, or you,” she continues.

“You’ve established that, have you?” Tom asks while staring at Ada. Her pulse quickens under his eyes and she reaches for another cigarette. “I wonder what it could be then,” he continues, “Sounded important, from the way Ada said it.”

Ada’s heart leaps an entire beat and she takes a gulp of her drink. He’d heard her. He’d heard the whole fucking thing. Does he already know? Did John tell him? It doesn’t seem like something John would share with Tommy, but maybe he didn’t have to. Tom’s smart. He could figure it out on his own. Then Ada has a thought and she feels herself grow cold as she considers it. What if he hasn’t been trying to hide it? She replays John’s words now. But she did look like you, he’d said, and it’s not the first time it’s happened. Jesus Christ. The whiskey in her stomach makes a jump for her throat but Ada catches it with a small gulp of air.

“You alright, Ada?” Tommy asks and she nods as she leans forward to light her cigarette off his offered flame. She’s thankful she didn’t have to light it herself or else the shaking of her hand would have been made clear.

“It’s just women’s talk, Tom,” Ada says while avoiding his eyes and leaning back in her chair. “It wouldn’t interest you.”

“This is an equal opportunity enterprise, as you both know,” he says. “What makes you think I’m not interested?”

“She just wants to Pol to do her gypsy witchcraft,” Ada says while pointing at Polly with her smoke and she feels her aunt watching her as she speaks. “Tell her the sex of the baby and other mystical unknowns.” Please God, catch on Aunt Pol, Ada thinks. She can’t calm the beats of her heart, not with the infection so close, so hot and burning.

“Of course she does,” Polly says firmly. “Who else would she go to? Doctors?” She laughs with her words and her laughter soothes a bit of Ada’s heart. Her Aunt Polly is such a clever woman. “Those men in white coats wouldn’t recognize a woman’s body if it wasn’t stretched out beneath them.” And even Tommy cracks a smile at Polly’s words.

“I’m here for the ledgers,” he says in answer to Polly’s question asked long ago and puts out his cigarette. Polly nods and gathers the stack together. “I want to look over them before my meeting in the morning,” he says after finishing the whiskey in his glass. He stands and accepts the books that Pol holds out for him. “You leaving, Ada?” He continues while towering over his sister. “I’ll give you ride.”

“I’ll just get a cab, Tom.”

“It’s safer,” he says, “riding with me. Come on, let’s go.” He walks towards the door and holds it open without waiting for her reply. Polly watches Ada with wide eyes as her niece stuffs her cigarettes back into her purse and stands. Her clever Aunt, Ada finds herself thinking again. Of course Polly’s worried too. How could she not be when Tom doesn’t even try to disguise it?

#Peaky Blinders #peaky blinders fandom #peaky blinders fanfic #Ada Thorne #Ada Shelby #Thomas Shelby #Sibling relationship #Gaslighting #Manipulation #Emotional abuse #Incest if you squint

1 note · View note

lifewithchronicpain-original · 4 years

Text

Doggie update! He is still with us, and doing fairly well. All signs of impending kidney doom of some kind just mostly went away. Water intake is still more than normal but not excessive and he can control his piss again. I can’t believe we thought he was going into organ failure and now this. We’ve come to the conclusion it was either an infection run its course or a he’s got a good turn for a little bit before he goes.

Either way, that means pup is still with us, and I told my mom what dosage is safe for aspirin with dogs his size and just hasn’t gotten it. The thing is, when we were dealing with urinary problems we had to wash his arthritic beds and one of them made by me with multiple parts to enhance a too small bed and just wasn’t put back together. Xander was getting nasty and with good reason. He’s not allowed on the couches (a rule I personally could never implement myself, but I have to follown it) and the thinnest crappiest bed was the only one not pissed on.

I finally got around to finding all the pieces and putting it back together. Then I realized that I need to get his crate back out. He doesn’t interact best with the baby and my sister is here a lot when her husband is working as a sailor. So there had been tension in the house and issues around the dog, and poor Xander was being given harsh standards that aren’t also applied to Lyra. I wasn’t aware until literally a couple days ago that it’s generally okay for my sisters dog Lyra to be allowed in the couch, and she’s 3 in good health. Xander’s experiencing pit bull bias, no doubt about it, especially from my sister. I don’t hang in the living room a lot to notice. I would get Lyra off the couches too. My other younger sister told me in rant about how older sister treats our dog. I love Lyra but she ain’t better than my dog for being an expensive pure bred shepherd.

So the crate is a comforting thing for Xander and I put it back upstairs with the comfy bed and he loves it. He goes willingly in and we only need to shut the door sometimes. Now he’s not constantly thrown on the cellar or outside. pitbulls have Thin fucking coats they are not as thick as German Shepherd like Lyra. It was hurting him physically and emotionally. Now he has a safe soft space where he can be with us but calm and comfortable without all the “No Xander don’t lick the baby!” (Baby hates it and breaks out from dog licks, and yes Lyra is a culprit too) In any case, when you have new behavioral problems you go back to basics like crates. But also don’t ignore why the problem exists, which for Xander is mostly pain.

So with the crate thing helping in that way, I decided tonight to just look at doggie aspirins because I worry about his stomach and wanted to review whether it was the right choice. I ended up finding a supplement with glucosamine and willow bark which where aspirin comes from. I am hoping that will be gentler in his stomach that has sensitivity issues. And since I have amazon prime for now, it’s coming tomorrow and I get to help give him some measure of pain relief before he does finally leave us.

I’ve also been his biggest advocate and he knows it. Mom always be no1 to him but I’ve earned my no2 spot. Our bond couldn’t be stronger and I’m going to miss this dog so much when it is time. But we may have bought weeks, even months, and I’m content with that.

#xander #pitbulllove

19 notes · View notes

hungryflowers · 4 years

Text

Let Me Fall in Love With You

Title: Let Me Fall in Love with You

Rating: Teen

Relationship(s): RadioHusk

Continuity/Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Characters: Alastor, Husk

Warnings: Swearing, Gore and Maiming

RadioHusk Week Prompt: Falling In Love

Alastor walked down the path through the woods at the right moment. Toothy, alligator chesire of a smile flitting in the low light. His outfit made it easy for him to blend in to the surroundings, the foliage of dead, decaying leaves masked him in deep shadows of orange and red. The woods would be barren. Without fail, nothing grew here for long. The territory was the only stretch of flourishing wildlands that kept up sparse flora. A perfect place to stage and stash a murder. These woods kept the Radio Demon spellbound by the way the Sinners would yowl and scream inside and around the woods. Tonight was no different... Well, he had been wrong before.

Sprang from the woods was indeed a squawking sinner. Literally. It was a bird on a genus origin Alastor knew nothing of, but it was running. And it was running to him. Beside himself, Alastor did not move, did not beat the sinner away or show interest in the abandoned pleas. All he did was tilt his head to the side, his smile subduing as more closed, eyebrow arched in what could be confusion as he tried to make sure they did not touch him.

“You gotta help me! Please man! PLEASE!,” He wailed, feathers going everywhere as he tried to get Alastor to respond, “He’s gonna kill me! He already ripped off my feathers! You gotta save me!”

Alastor looked the poor gent over, seeing red intermingling in sea of blue and yellow. The green eyed bird was trying to get closer to the deer demon, to grab at him for leverage as its legs went underneath him.

Alastor looked at the male bird, cleared his throat unhurried like and said, “My poor fellow sinner...”, Vindictive and snide were not the terms to be used as he poshly straightened his clothes and tempered his voice, “Whom is trying to kill you? After all, why would you go out into these woods and not expect to be attacked while on a stroll?” Alastor’s chest inflated as he swatted away the sinner’s grabby hands. He had no patience for this. The buffoon had ruined his quiet, he wanted it back.

“You don’t understand! He--”

A hissed snarl came from behind the two of them. Alastor’s ears came to attention of the sudden sound, as well as the rustle of under brush. There was stillness for all of four seconds when without warning a massive flurry of red and grey came thrashing out of the leaves and branches.

Alastor suspected the creature be a lycanthrope of a kind. Such creatures were hellspawns and not uncommon when walking through the hollows, yet on second glance he noticed the form of the beast was not of canine, but of a felidae visage. It was slender but toned. Furry yet feathery at the same time. Paws larger than Alastor’s whole hands were decorated with deadly, serrated knives at each tip. It hissed, spat, snarled, growled wildly as it sped towards them.

Alastor shoved the imbecile off his path at the same time the beast pounced on the sinner, who had been screaming the whole time. He continued to do as the feline began to rip the sinner into pieces; ivory claws going decorated with blood the color of red wine, teeth plunged into the poor beast’s flabby skin, tearing it in excess as the muscles and tendon came free with a wet squelch.

“Help! Help me please! Oh God, why is this happening to me?!!” He brayed reaching out a claw to Alastor, him hoping he would reach with his own to save him. The large cat bit down on the arm, a hard crackling could be heard as the deer demon was certain he heard bones breaking. The screams confirmed as the limb went limp while it began to bite in and chew the limb right off his body. A weak sob came from the poor creature as it was wrenched from its socket, down the gullet of the cat.

Alastor’s smile, he found, began to widen as he took part -visually- in the blood splatter and dismemeberment of the poor soul. He even giggled when the cat demon’s claws went right into the gut to slit gashes into the meat there. The cries became fainter and fainter as the creature began pulling out intestines and eating them right out of the warm body.

The soil around them began to grow foul with the assailed brutal wounds, the life liquid spilling out as more organs; a fatty stomach, lower intestines and a kidney was ripped out and swallowed without a care for finesse. The white face of the cat demon was deeply red, the flavor of the color making Alastor want to walk up to the creature and lick it off his cheeks. The thought left as soon the cat’s golden teeth plunged into the sinner’s neck to rip out the trachea, ending the struggle completely.

It was all over in a blink, the sinner was dead. Silent, save the droplets falling into the grass.

In the quiet, the cat demon looked over to Alastor, who just now got a view of the feline’s incredibly intelligent looking, orange round eyes. The gleamed like firelight on a cadaverous winter tundra, filled with the malice of an angry spirit.

Looking at him as he remained still, Alastor could see to him fully; his grey coat was like year old soot, chest -that was covered in deep red at the moment- was stagnantly white. On his neck appeared to be a bowtie that was dirtied by the crimson...or maybe it was crimson. The deer demon couldn’t tell from a distance. The beast’s ears were set wide apart and held high atop his head. His face held a permanent scowl of a snarl.

“You’re gonna be next if you don’t get the fuck out of here.” A grizzled snarl of a voice was not what Alastor expected. It set the Radio Demon’s chest alight with something he can’t process. He huffed, wagged his cane and took one deliberate step to the feline.

“My, my quite the vulgarity you hold. I will be taking off on my merry way... for a boon, dear fellow.” His gaze stayed, eyes honing on the cat’s snarl.

“The fuck’s that gotta mean?! Piss off or I’ll rip your stinkin’ guts out!” A louder growl as he skulked closer his tail, that was not seen before now, thrashing from side to side.

“Tut, tut. A boon is merely a gift. An exchange. All I ask of you is your name.” Another deliberate step forward. His voice still audible yet dipped a slight.

“My...name? How about yours, motherfucker!”

“Certainly! My name, dear fellow, is Alastor. The Radio Demon and most possibly the most dangerous sinner in Hell,” He boasted proudly as he laughed loudly, “Now may it get yours?”

The cat’s long eyebrows shot up, tail starting to stand as he examined the sinner. Pupils constricted a touch as he looked this ‘Alastor’ over.

“Never heard of you. And that’s a pretty ballsy statement coming from a wacko looking son-of-a-bitch like you. Got yourself thinkin’ your hot shit, huh? You even own turf? You ain’t that dangerous if you can’t even take down no Overlords!” The male cat laughed, and laughed hard. So hard he put his paw over his face forgetting about the blood coating it.

“You must be new... I’ve established enough territory that even these woods could be considered mine. Unless, you want to battle me for them.” A nonsensical bluff he blustered. Alastor knew better than to meddle with this sinner. His skin didn’t look to appetizing for his room tastes.

“That right? Well, color me impressed. Tell you what, we ever cross paths again I might give that little ‘boon’ of yours. Till then, fuck off or I’ll eat you next.” The cat spat as magnificent wings spread out; the feathers a deeper red than the blood of his body and longer than the cat demon’s body. They took him off the ground with such grace as he disappeared into the blood red sky, leaving the deer demon in open-mouthed awe.

‘What a joyous encounter that had been! Not one for first impressions though.’ Alastor chuckled to himself as he walked away from the most spectacular scene of madness and murder ever displayed. They would cross paths sooner than the mysterious beauty thought. He’d make sure of it.

____________________

After months of wearing the feline sinner down, the moment of a lifetime had come to Alastor. The cat ran his giant paw over his face as he spoke into his bottle of booze.

“What was that? I speak three languages but gargle isn’t one.”

Smartass.

The cat swallowed his cheap swill slowly before looking Alastor right in his eyes.

“Husk.” Tone flat and deadpanned.

Falling in love wasn’t something he planned on doing, but now no one was permitted to have Husk the way Alastor did.

A/N: Hello! I am late to RadioHusk week! A whole, freakin’ week late. Long story short, my computer’s charger broke and slowly my laptop just sat and died on me. I just a new one today and am now ready to begin my version of day one. Enjoy!!

#hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel husk #hazbin hotel #alastor #husk

7 notes · View notes

seeaddywrite · 5 years

Text

bitch i’m a monster [Part III]

if you haven’t read Part I and Part II, i would not suggest starting here!

A/N: this part was hard to write, & it got really long? it’s almost 6k of biting, talking, & denial, with some angst on Michael’s end thrown in for fun. the last part is much more light-hearted, & will end happily. don’t believe me? i don’t blame you. i’ve lied to you twice now about how long the damn thing is going to be, but the next part really is the finale!

major thanks to @soberqueerinthewild for listening to me bitch & moan over this section, coming up with the brilliant idea that the last part centers around, & reading over the first three drafts of this section. (why does she put up with me? the world will never know.)

warnings for biting, blood drinking, somewhat graphic descriptions of blood & pretty obvious references to sex, though it is not explicit. also, yes, self-indulgence & ridiculousness abound.

To Alex, it’s as if the world freezes in the next moment.

The hunger is still there, clawing at his insides, but it seems less all-consuming than it had a moment ago. It’s shock, maybe — Alex certainly feels numb enough, and the ringing in his ears and disconnect from his own body are the same symptoms he woke up to when he’d lost his leg. And really, it makes sense. This is impossible. Michael, sitting cross-legged in front of him, staring back evenly into the vampire’s eyes that Alex couldn’t conceal any longer. Their knees are touching, now that Alex has shoved himself back into a sitting position, and Michael’s got a hold of both his hands as if he’s afraid Alex will be the one to leave since he’s refused. If they’d been wearing less clothing and not trapped in the middle of the desert, it would be a scene straight out of Alex’s fantasies, and it doesn’t make any goddamn sense.

He’s known since Sebastian did this to him that Michael couldn’t ever find out, that no one could ever find out, could ever be involved in this part of Alex’s world. Every time Alex had succumbed to a moment of weakness and allowed Michael to get closer, his imagination had conjured images of the disgust, the horror, that would paint his face if he ever saw Alex like this. He’d convinced himself that keeping Michael far, far away from his darker self was the only way to keep him safe, and now that it’s all ruined, Alex has no idea what he’s supposed to do next — especially since at this moment, it feels like he’s smothering in his own skin and the only available source of oxygen is the blood flowing through Michael’s veins.

“Alex, breathe.” Calloused hands release Alex’s, only to take hold of his shoulders and shake. The motion is gentle, but it’s enough to make him realize that while he hadn’t been registering the pain, it had still taken hold. His entire body had seized, his muscles tensed, and at some point, he’d stopped breathing. So he lets the air out of his lungs in a sharp exhale and shoves Michael back, putting at least a few inches between his body and Alex’s teeth. He can smell it now, the blood, and his baser self is locked on that scent like a shark would be on bleeding prey in open water. It doesn’t matter that Michael has no open wounds, that Alex shouldn’t be able to smell blood contained by skin. But the fragile barrier is nothing to his supernatural senses. It would take less than an instant for Alex to rend that flesh and have living blood in his mouth, flowing through his veins —

And fuck, apparently a few inches of space isn’t enough to get that scent out of his nose. Alex clenches his jaw and closes his lips, less to hide the fangs that Guerin’s already seen and more to put an added layer of pathetic protection between them and Michael’s fragile body.

“Why can’t you ever just listen?” Alex demands, though the words emerge as more of a ragged sob than the accusation he wants them to be. “Fuck, Guerin, would it kill you to just follow an order once in your life?” Like the onset of the attacks, the release is unpredictable. Alex’s muscles suddenly unclench, and he slumps forward, elbows on his knees and shoulders hunched as he struggles to catch his breath while he can.

“This time, I think it would have killed you,” Michael says tersely, and when Alex lifts his aching head to look at him, he actually has the gall to look angry. Alex is trying to protect him, to get him to see reason and run for once in his damned life while his entire body screams at him to do otherwise, and Michael’s pissed? Unbelievable.

“You do realize you just basically had a seizure or something, right?” Michael continues, his voice unyielding. “While we’re god knows how far from help?”

Alex’s laugh is bitter and inappropriate, but he can’t help it. “Help? Christ, Guerin, look at me.” He lifts his chin and forces his lips apart so that his fangs are on display. He knows all too well what he looks like — predatory. Inhuman. Monstrous. He holds the position for as long as he can stand, letting Michael see everything he’s so painstakingly hidden for the last several years. Every wall he’s put in place to keep himself safely hidden away is gone, and Alex is left feeling exposed and vulnerable and off-kilter, and he’s not ashamed to admit that his temper is short. “What the hell do you think a hospital can do for me? I’m a vampire, Michael. I can’t go to a doctor any more than you can. They don’t exactly give the kind of blood transfusions I need.”

“Right.” Michael is quiet for a moment, and Alex uses the respite to duck his head, chin to chest, and tries to figure out his next move. If Michael won’t leave him, the next logical solution is for Alex to leave — but he’s not optimistic about his ability to even stand, right now, let alone move fast enough that Michael won’t be able to keep up with him. Under normal circumstances, he could run faster than the human (or alien) eye could track; he could get back to Roswell in five minutes and this entire nightmare would be over. But somehow, Jesse Manes has enough information on vampires to know what constant exposure to sunlight does to Alex. He has enough data to organize the perfect trap for Alex and Michael — and as long as they make it out of this damned desert alive, Alex is going to find out how, exactly, his father knows all of it, and he’s going to make damn sure this never happens again. With his teeth, if necessary.

“For god’s sake, this is ridiculous,” Michael says suddenly, and Alex’s head jolts upright in surprise. Concerned, dark eyes find Alex’s and he finds himself relaxing fractionally at the warmth that has never quite dissipated from that familiar gaze, no matter how bad things have gotten between them. Even now, with his vampiric features on full display, that hasn’t changed — and the desperate hope that flares to life in Alex’s chest at the realization hurts more than hunger ever could.

“Here.” The decisive tone pulls his attention back to Michael, but before Alex can snap that he really needs to stop fucking talking long enough for Alex to get his inner beast back on a leash, there’s a pale wrist thrust in front of his face, a spiderwebbing of bluish veins immediately drawing the laser-focus of his enhanced vision. The world around him blurs alarmingly, and when it rights itself, Alex’s lips are brushing Michael’s skin. The fingers of one treacherously strong hand are wrapped around Guerin’s wrist, the others around his elbow, and Alex knows his grip is too tight, that he’s pressing finger-print shaped bruises onto the otherwise unmarred canvas of Michael’s skin. But Alex is hanging onto control by his fingernails, and all of his energy is dedicated to keeping his lips tucked over his fangs — he can’t even pull his face away, let alone release the death grip he has on Michael’s arm.

“Come on, man, just do it.” Impatience colors Michael’s order, and Alex stops breathing entirely, fury at Michael’s lack of self-preservation momentarily eclipsing everything else. “This is all because you’re hungry, right? All the pain, and the seizures, and the uh, teeth?” The hesitance around that word is understandable, and Alex is in enough physical pain that he barely feels the sting of it. “So dig in. I’m an all-you-can-eat alien buffet.”

Alex exhales raggedly and summons every iota of strength he’s got left to sit back. His fingers are still digging into Michael’s arm, and he can feel the tips of his fangs scoring his own lips, but he’s not about to sink them into Michael, so Alex considers it a win. “This isn’t a joke, Guerin,” he grinds out through a clenched jaw.

Michael snorts. “You sure? Kind’ve sounds like one, if you think about it. ‘An alien and a vampire are trapped in the desert . . .’”

For a moment, Alex just stares at the smug, teasing smirk on Michael’s face, rendered utterly speechless by the cavalier attitude toward something that could cost him his goddamned life. It lasts for a moment before Alex’s patience abruptly snaps. He snarls, fangs bared, and lunges forward, tackling Michael to the ground in a blur of movement he’d believed himself incapable of only a few moments prior. It’s all too easy to pin Michael’s bulk to the sun-baked dirt with his body; Alex grips strong wrists and forces them to to the ground as he settles his weight against Michael’s thighs. Short of a miraculous disappearance of the pollen still coating his curls, there’s no way Michael can move unless Alex allows it — and he’s not feeling particularly magnanimous at the moment.

“There’s a rock in my kidney now, thanks,” Guerin gripes breathlessly, the air knocked from his lungs by the impact of his fall. His muscles go lax, head lolling to one side as he looks up into Alex’s furious face expectantly. He makes no effort to fight back; instead, Michael just waits, neck vulnerable and exposed by this new position, and Alex wants to shake him for not realizing the danger he’s inviting.

“I could kill you, and you’re cracking jokes!” he hisses, mouth dangerously close to a major artery as he bends inward, letting the tips of his fangs slide over the shell of Michael’s ear. Finally, the steady, thudding rhythm of Michael’s heartbeat accelerates as Alex pushes him further into the desert floor, and if he wasn’t so damn hungry, so determined to make his fucking point, it would be enough to stop him. Fear isn’t an emotion he ever wants to inspire in Michael, and every human instinct he has screams for Alex to stop, to pull away and tell Michael to start running -- but they’re past that point, now, if it was ever even really an option.

“You don’t know what you’re risking right now, Guerin. If you had any idea how much I want to hold you down like this and tear into your fucking throat, you wouldn’t be laughing!” He wants to sound angry. He wants Michael to hear the threat inherent in those words, to understand that Alex would never have let his fangs drop if he were in any kind of control, and that every second they play this game is sending him hurtling closer to the edge of a cliff that he won’t be able to avoiding falling from. Nonetheless, the words emerge as more of a desperate croak, and he has to drop his forehead to Michael’s chest to ride out another wave of agony as his body reminds him that he’s only inches from ending it.

His fingers spasm and his grip fails, but instead of pulling away, Michael just lifts one hand to cup the back of Alex’s head, repositioning them both so that Alex’s face rests in the cradle of Michael’s neck and shoulder. “If you were really out of control, you would’ve done it already,” he says quietly, and Alex can feel the words rumble through his chest where they’re pressed together. “And I trust you.” There are gentle fingers sliding through Alex’s hair, caressing the back of his head, and the soft gesture is in such fierce juxtaposition with the pain raging through his body that he’s not quite sure what to make of it.

“C’mon, Alex, just let me take care of you this time, huh?” Michael continues to cajole, his voice low and calm, almost hypnotizing, and Alex struggles to remember why biting him would be such a bad idea. He’s still on top of Michael, chest-to-chest, his face tucked into the other man’s neck, and Michael sounds so damn certain that this is the right thing to do, that it would be okay —

Alex trembles, but gives in.

There are no other options anymore; Michael isn’t going anywhere, and Alex doubts he would be able to let him, even if he wanted to. And God help him, but he’s so hungry. “Two minutes,” he rasps. “Count it out, and if I don’t stop by the time you’re done, yank my hair and make me,” he murmurs against Michael’s skin, wishing that he had the ambition to lift his head and impress the importance of such a request on this man that means so much to him. But the energy that movement would take is too much, and Alex finds himself slumping completely into Michael instead, nuzzling against his neck entirely on instinct. “Don’t let me hurt you, Michael,” he manages, though the quiet plea is barely understandable around his fangs.

And then, before logic can beat out need and instinct, before Michael can even take a breath to respond, Alex sinks his fangs into the artery pulsing just beneath his nose.

As soon as the first drop of blood hits Alex’s tongue, any semblance of rational thought ceases to exist. He’s euphoric with the sudden lack of pain, giddy with relief and the taste of something forbidden, and Michael’s hand is still on the back of his head, cradling him as he drinks like he’s something precious. In that moment, negativity and fear flee, and Alex is in no hurry for them to return. He’s never taken blood straight from the source before, is accustomed to refrigerated, congealing goop that barely sates the hunger and leaves him cold and wanting, but able to function as human.

Michael’s blood, though, is alive. It’s hot and addictive as it drips into Alex’s mouth and turns to raw energy in his veins. Drinking it is like shoving his finger in an electrical socket and seems to create a current over his skin, cranking every nerve receptor up to ten and hyper-sensitizing his entire body. In the rush, Alex forgets to drink, reveling in pure sensation. For the first time in three long years, Alex feels like more than a reanimated corpse going through the motions of life. He feels whole, real, and he never wants to go back.

A trickle of blood distracts him as it escapes his lips and trails down damp, sunburnt skin. Alex chases it, licking a long stripe up the tendon beneath Michael’s ear before sealing his mouth back over the wound he’d made. Michael shivers beneath him, shifting restlessly, and Alex uses some of his rapidly burgeoning strength to pin him again. Inhuman heat emanates from Michael’s body, soaking through the thin cotton of Alex’s shirt and into his chest, and he presses impossibly closer, his entire body canting into Michael’s. Raw pleasure shoots up his spine as the evidence of his desire presses hard into Michael’s thigh, and Alex is too far gone to be embarrassed. He repeats the movement, a slow roll of his hips, and all but purrs when Michael responds with a cut off groan.

The low, throaty chuckle that echoes from Michael’s chest resonates through Alex’s as well due to their proximity, and he focuses for a moment, trying to unscramble his brain without disengaging from the source of his newfound energy. With the monster in his head sated by the promise of blood, it’s easier to do, and he abruptly realizes that Michael’s talking to him, murmuring something every time it seems like Alex is going to stop or pull away. The words are lost in the flood of arousal and that overwhelming energy still buzzing through his body, but Alex can hear his voice. He’s always associated that low, lust-rough rumble with contentment, with safety, and the warm embrace cocooning him does nothing to erase that feeling. Instead, it sends the same message to Alex’s subconscious as always: he’s safe. He’s loved. He’s wanted. He’s allowed to have this.

He turns his attention back to the task at hand and drinks from the wound he’d made in slow, careful pulls, savoring every drop of blood as it slides down his throat. Each sip stokes the fire growing low in his stomach, and every shiver or shudder from Michael only encourages Alex on — he’s lost track of anything resembling time, knows only hunger and desire and the pursuit of more. The world outside is lost in a sea of pleasure, and some part of Alex knows that this could be the last time he gets to have Michael this way, the last time he’ll be allowed to touch him, and the rest of him responds with a frightening desperation.

Then, all too soon, Michael’s tugging gently on his hair, trying to get his attention, and Alex honest-to-god whines when he’s forced to disengage his fangs and look up into Michael’s flushed face. Hunger is still a low, non-exigent buzz beneath his skin, but it’s melded so completely with arousal and energy that Alex can’t separate it any longer. His lips are wet with blood, his features still twisted into a predatory visage, but Michael is smirking at him like he hasn’t noticed, and Alex can’t help but smile back. His humanity is a distant thing, present, but walled off by instinct and want, and he’s in no hurry to let it shackle him back to self-loathing and guilt.

“That was two minutes,” Michael says while his fingers trail over Alex’s temple and down his cheek. The touch is careful over the blown, black veins around his eyes, but he doesn’t shy away from them. Alex pushes into the touch, letting it soothe the need still burning through his veins. “But I’m not dizzy or anything, and you look like you could use a little bit longer.” The scrutiny should bother him, Alex knows distantly — he doesn’t like being fussed over, and it’s not Michael’s job to take care of him. But in that moment, when he wants nothing more than to meld his skin with his lover’s and keep him there, in that moment forever, it feels good to have Michael’s worried eyes on him.

But something in the back of Alex’s mind tells him that Michael’s words are important, that he needs to pay attention. Two minutes? The significance of that time frame escapes Alex, though he knows it should mean something, and he struggles to push through the influx of energy and emotion to piece it together. But Michael isn’t repeating himself, is relaxed and comfortable beneath Alex, so the attempt fails. Alex tilts his head to one side, letting his disinterest in the topic be known, and entertains himself by tracing the features of Michael’s face with a fingertip. He stalls when he hits sun-roughened lips, and leans in to press his mouth against them, fangs and all. In this state, Alex is a creature of simple pleasures, and in that moment, all he wants is to kiss Michael.

There’s no resistance. Michael’s lips part under Alex’s insistent tongue easily, and they get lost in the give and take of kissing and roaming hands. There’s a voice in the back of Alex’s head reminding him that they’re trapped out here, that his father’s trying to kill them, and that lying in the sand is hardly the right place for any of this, but he ignores it. This is what he’s wanted for years, forever, and finally, he’s able to separate himself from stupid, human worries and take it. So he grinds his hips down into Michael’s, chasing sensation and that connection with someone he loves, and makes no effort to hold himself back. His hands slide beneath Michael’s shirt, palms sweeping over the expanse of sweat-tacky skin and muscle, and Alex moans openly when Michael shifts, pressing his thigh up at just the right angle to send sparks dancing along Alex’s spine.

And for a while, it’s just the two of them lost in a fog of touch and desire. It’s all so familiar and easy, like sliding on an old, comfortable flannel after losing it for years, and Alex can’t quite believe that they’re here again, together and connected in a way that he thought was lost for good. But eventually, Michael has to breathe; Alex can feel him panting raggedly against his mouth and pulls away to give him the chance, even as his body clamors for more.

He repositions himself carefully across Michael’s chest, tucking his cheek against one shoulder, nearest the puncture marks from his last bite, and busies himself with lapping at the weeping wound. Blood has left stains on Michael’s skin and pooled in the divot of his collarbone, and Michael huffs in surprise when Alex’s tongue meets the sensitive area impatiently. The taste isn’t as good now that the blood’s been able to cool, but Alex isn’t picky — and he knows that Michael won’t mind if he bites him again. He’d basically invited it, hadn’t he?

“So, Anne Rice got the whole blood and sex thing right, huh?” Michael teases, once he’s gotten his breath back. “I guess fiction’s gotta get a lucky guess once in a while … but I’m yet to see the alien movie that gets it right.”

Alex freezes, humanity returning all too quickly with a flood of embarrassment. He doesn’t know exactly why, but something in that good-natured joke reminds him that this isn’t normal. That he’s spent the last fifteen minutes out of his mind and rutting up against his ex’s thigh like a horny teenager — and the worst part is that even now, with his entire body frozen in mortification, he’s still straddling Michael’s legs with an impossible to miss hard-on.

“I always thought it was a little unfair, you know? Vampires and werewolves were sexy, and aliens got turned into little green men who get hauled off and dissected in every fucking movie. But I guess I’ll have to let that one go if it’s actually true, huh?” Michael’s rambling, and Alex wonders if it’s because he’s realized that reality has crept back up on Alex, and is trying to help. But even the familiar teasing timbre of Guerin’s voice isn’t enough to ease Alex’s discomfiture.

“But seriously, do you get hard every time you bite someone, or am I just special?”

If Alex had been paying attention, he would’ve noticed the note of vulnerability in Michael’s voice as he asked the question. As it is, he’s too swamped with mortification and immediate protest to even wonder why Guerin’s asking. “No!” he bursts out, rolling away from the comforting warmth of Michael’s chest to put six feet of desert between them before he sinks back to the ground and wraps his arms around drawn-up knees. It’s not a reaction he’s proud of; small and vulnerable isn’t a role he adopts often, especially in the middle of a life or death situation. But today has been such a riot of emotion that Alex is exhausted, and the fact that he still has to actively work to think more like a human than an animal is wearing at his last reserves. Besides, at this point, Michael’s seen him screaming and seizing in pain, has touched every inch of his scarred flesh, and didn’t hit him when Alex sunk fangs into his neck — there’s not much Alex can do to make himself more vulnerable than that.

Even while stewing in self-pity, it’s easy to hear Michael get up, and his footfalls on the sand are far from silent. Alex tracks him as he gets closer and is intimately aware when he flops down next to him, heedless of Alex’s deep and abiding desire to put miles between them. He’s silent, obviously correctly interpreting the rigid set of Alex’s spine and the tension in his coiled muscles as a desperate need for time to pull himself together. Alex allows the silence to linger for a while, long enough that it starts to feel tense, before admitting, “I don’t bite people, Guerin. Ever. I didn’t know it would be like that. Or I wouldn’t have —” That’s not entirely true. Alex is fairly sure he would have; he’d been perilously close to losing control. So he cuts himself off, then corrects the statement: “I would’ve warned you.” He swallows, staring out at the horizon to avoid looking at Michael. “I’m sorry.”

Alex blames his positioning on why he jumps at the hand on his back; it’s impossible to have been expecting that when he’s got himself convinced that Michael’s going to run off and put as much space between them as possible. It’s what he would do, in the same situation -- alien is one thing. Vampire, though? Dependent, and turned on by, blood? Who the fuck would want that in their lives?

“Whoa, hey, it’s just me,” Michael promises, and the hand on his shoulder slides down Alex’s spine in an achingly familiar caress. The simple touch brings back so many memories of their time together; the other man has always been overly tactile with Alex, likely because he never got much in the way of physical affection himself. But whatever the reason, Michael’s never been afraid to reach out -- and the fact that he’s doing it even now, with his own blood staining Alex’s lips, is enough to make Alex tremble. He relaxes incrementally — it’s impossible not to, with Michael’s warmth at his side and against his back — and exhales on a slow sigh.

“Look, I have about a million questions, especially about how it’s possible for you to have never bitten anyone else before,” Michael says, after a moment of fidgeting alongside Alex. He’s clearly been trying to figure out the right way to say something — he always taps the fingers of his good hand on his knee in introspective moments, and Alex has known him too long to miss the signs. Internally, he groans. He doesn’t want to talk about any of this, doesn’t want to get into the limited understanding he has of vampirism or the sad story that led him there. But he owes Michael explanations, especially now, so Alex sits up straight and nods, bracing himself.

“ — but right now, I just really want to know if you got enough.” Whiskey-colored eyes scan Alex’s body, like Michael could see the symptoms of hunger if he looked closely enough, and the only response Alex can manage is a cracked, disbelieving laugh that borders on hysteria.

“You’re worried I didn’t drink enough of your blood?” he asks incredulously, once he’s regained some semblance of composure. “I pinned you down, bit you, basically molested you, and —”

“Oh, come on, Alex,” Michael interrupts with a derisive snort. “You didn’t molest me. In case you’ve forgotten, you’re the only reason we’re not still having sex on a regular basis. As far as I’m concerned, you can touch me whenever and however you want.” Michael swallows, then adds, “Believe me, man, I wanted that just as much as your vampire hindbrain did. I guess I should’ve known you didn’t really want it, though.” He huffs, a bitter, self-recriminating noise. “The power of wishful thinking, huh? For a minute there, I really thought you did.”

They’re shit at talking and always have been, but Michael’s so much better at openness than Alex. He’s got no problem putting his heart out there to get broken and has given all of his secrets to Alex with an enviable ease, but returning that openness seems all but impossible, no matter how wrong Michael is. So Alex is silent, instead, and uses the time to blink away his more predatory features.

His face shifts back to human, and when he looks up at Michael next, the other man is clearly hurt by his silence and trying to hide it with irritation. “Fine. You don’t want to talk about that? Answer my damn question. Was it enough, or are you going to have another seizure in twenty minutes?”

Frustration is rough in the words, and forces himself to lift his chin to meet Michael’s gaze head-on with a cool expression of his own. It’s not ideal, but Alex doesn’t know how to give away these pieces of himself without putting up some sort of wall between them. Once he starts giving Michael that access, there won’t be any locking him out again, and Alex is terrified of what that might mean. “I don’t know,” he answers quietly, the words starkly honest. “I’ve never been in this situation before, Guerin. I only ever drink blood from a bag, and I don’t usually make a habit of spending hours in the sun. I’ve always been careful to feed on a schedule, so I don’t lose control, so this —” he hesitates, picking at the fabric of his pants distractedly. “I just don’t know, okay?”

Michael frowns. The expression isn’t unhappy; it’s the same frown Michael wears when presented with a unique puzzle, like a difficult physics problem or a philosophical hypothetical like the ones Max is so fond of throwing out for discussion. “What difference does the sun make?” he asks finally, every inch a scientist adjusting an equation for variables.

So Alex explains what he knows about how the sun affects his blood consumption, tripping over some of the words. Besides the one-sided conversation with Sebastian right after his transformation, Alex has never had anyone to talk about these things with. It’s all been locked up in his head, hidden beneath the self-loathing he felt every time he was confronted with the reality of vampirism. It’s a relief to finally be able to say the words aloud, despite the awkward situation, and it gets easier the longer he speaks.

“Okay, so, the longer we’re in the sun the worse it’s going to get,” Michael summarizes succinctly. “Considering we’re in the middle of the desert, I think we’ve got to assume you’re going to keep burning energy pretty quickly.” He pauses to wipe sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, and Alex tracks the motion with his eyes, unable to stop watching Michael — as always. “So, how much blood do you normally drink at once? If you’re following your schedule? And how often?”

Alex blanches at the frank nature of the question. Talking about the science behind vampirism is one thing — admitting to the more personal aspects is harder. He still hasn’t forgotten that less than half an hour ago, he was fangs-deep in Michael’s neck and rutting against him without any care for propriety, and this topic is coming dangerously close to touching that one. But he answers, as shortly as possible. “The bags say 300 millimeters on them. I drink three every day, at normal meal times — about six hours apart. If I push it past six, I start to notice how hungry I am, and I’ve never gone longer than seven.” He winces. “Until today, anyway.”

Most people, Alex thinks, would have a hard time believing that he doesn’t have all the information about what he is. He’d made the same assumptions about Alex, after all, and knows Liz did too, after Max revealed his heritage to her. It’s a natural response, to assume that when someone admits that they’re a different species that they know their own biology, at the very least. But Michael knows better. He understands what it’s like to be something other than human and be left with more questions than answers. He knows exactly how it feels to lack control over parts of himself, and have no idea why. So he doesn’t demand anything, doesn’t look at Alex like he’s an idiot. He just nods and adds the limited knowledge to whatever equation he’s putting together in his mind.

“So you normally have 900 millilitres of blood a day, and today you’ve had — what, maybe fifty? You spent more time apologizing than you did actually drinking anything.” There’s the barest insinuation of an accusation in the statement, and Alex finds himself giving Guerin a flat look in response. “And we’re trapped in the middle of the desert, so whatever you did actually have will be burned off in an hour or so, according to that math. I’m not liking those odds, Manes.”

Alex sighs and rubs at his face. He’s more than ready to stop discussing his feeding habits, and vampirism at all — not that he thinks he’s going to get out of it. Michael’s going to have more questions, of course, and Alex owes him the answers. And it’s not even that Michael’s being overly personal about his inquiries; he’s being entirely professional, treating everything as more of a scientific hypothesis than anything else.

But maybe that’s the problem. Alex doesn’t want to be a science experiment to Michael, nor a problem to solve. He wants everything between them to be personal, and always has. Being able to open up to someone about vampirism, about all the things he doesn’t know and all of his fears and uncertainties is simultaneously terrifying and alluring, and Alex wants Michael to be that person. But instead, he’s treating him as clinically as any doctor Alex has ever seen.

“You’re a fucking idiot, you know that?” Michael announces, folding his arms over his chest and glaring balefully at Alex when he only lapses into silence once again. It seems the safest option, considering he’s been far more open and honest about himself than he can ever remember being before.

“Just bite me again. You know you’re not going to lose your shit and kill me this time, and losing 300 mL of blood isn’t enough to hurt someone with my body mass. It’ll be fine, and then we can actually move onto figuring out how to get back to town instead of worrying about how long we have before you start screaming again.” He’s completely matter-of-fact as he speaks, and doesn’t let Alex even get a word in edgewise before pressing his body closer and tipping his head to one side, revealing the two careful puncture marks Alex made earlier. The motion tugs at the skin, and fresh blood wells at the site, making the monster in Alex’s chest snarl with want.

Instinct intervenes, and Alex’s fangs slide from his gums. His entire body thrills at the acrid scent in the air, and he’s tipping his head forward before he catches himself. “Damn it, Guerin,” he mutters, closing his eyes deliberately.

“What if I —”

“What if you actually relax and let me take care of you?” Michael interjects. “Yeah, that’d be a real fucking shame, wouldn’t it?” The bitterness is harder to ignore now, and it hurts in a visceral way that leaves Alex aching to prove Michael wrong. “I told you. You’re not going to do anything I don’t want. You stopped when I told you to before, even when you were out of it, so I’m not worried. So just — do it and stop arguing, for fuck’s sake.”

God help him, after a few moments of vacillation, Alex does. And this time, when he’s overtaken by the rush of endorphins and energy, he doesn’t even try stop his hand from wandering down the front of Michael’s jeans.

#my fic #vampire au #bitch i'm a monster #part iii #malex fic

76 notes · View notes